


Parallel Lines

by xMidnightSun



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesiac Character, Fellswap Papyrus (Undertale) - Freeform, Fellswap Sans (Undertale) - Freeform, Gen, Grand Crossover, OC Papyrus (Undertale), OC Sans (Undertale), Reader Is Not Frisk (Undertale), Slow Build, Swapfell Papyrus (Undertale), Swapfell Sans (Undertale), Trauma and recovery, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), Underswap Papyrus (Undertale), Underswap Sans (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:33:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26151178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xMidnightSun/pseuds/xMidnightSun
Summary: It's not the first time the machine has brought someone from another timeline through. Sans has a house full of alternates that prove it's become an annoyingly common part of life.But usually their alternates come in pairs -- one Sans, one Papyrus. So when one comes through alone, injured and without a clue who or what he is, the multiversal Serif household finds itself confronted with an entirely new mystery to solve, and something about this lone Papyrus and his strange behavior tells them it isn't going to be a happy story.
Relationships: Papyrus & Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 192





	1. Better Days

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Vindictive Care](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23845420) by [vindictiveskeletons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vindictiveskeletons/pseuds/vindictiveskeletons). 



> This is entirely wish fulfillment fantasy. I also haven't written in ages, so I'm sure it's going to read like hell. But that's why you write things for yourself, isn't it?
> 
> All AUs featured in this fic are based on the fandom originals, but personally written, so certain things won't line up with fanon interpretations. This includes nicknames, which I'll be addressing in a future chapter.
> 
> Feedback is always welcome, especially on character voice and writing style.

The list of things that you know is a very, very short one, and at the top of that list is the feeling of loneliness. Something about being the only one in a simple white room with no windows and no way out is familiar in a way you can't quite understand -- but being familiar with anything is quite a welcome feeling, considering the rest of your memory is as blank as the clean white walls.

Not that it actually _bothers_ you, per se. Certainly it's disconcerting, but you didn't really think about the blank spot in your memory except when you were questioned on it. Even though the other skeletons don't seem to believe you, it just... didn't seem strange.

Your name, your age, how you came to be in the basement, where you came from -- all of these are questions you were asked when the skeletons who owned this place found you, dazed and confused beside a sparking wreck of a machine, and you had answered an honest "I don't know". You had been unfazed by it until they'd given you a mirror and asked if you recognized the person in it.

And _that's_ what finally got to you:

You didn't have an answer. You still don't.

The man in the mirror is a skeleton, just like the others; tall and lanky, with terribly scarred bones hardly hidden beneath the short paper gown and rugged metal collar that makes up your ensemble. A long crack runs from one cheekbone to the other beneath the dull mismatched pinpricks that serve as your eyes, one white and the other a very pale green -- it's not the only scar, but it's far and away the most obvious one, and you think it must have _hurt_ when it happened. Another thin line branches from it to your nasal aperture, which has a small but noticeable chip taken out of it. Your teeth are flat but for four sharp canines, and there's a hairline crack spidering up from the white-lighted socket.

And none of it is familiar. That's the rub -- that's what finally gets the hackles up, makes you start considering your situation as more of a problem and less of an inconvenience.

You spend a long time looking in the mirror, memorizing yourself with both your eyes and your fingers. Only when you're sure you'll recognize yourself again do your thoughts turn to the whirlwind of questions swirling about your mind.

Obviously, you've lost your memory. And you lost it pretty good, if you couldn't even recognize yourself. The obvious first step is to figure out when your memory starts, and work backwards from there.

Thinking hard, you try to remember the first clear thing you can -- the basement, and waking up next to the machine.

* * *

_Your skull throbs as you slowly come to, making you grimace and groan in pain. You'd try to hold it if the pain weren't coming from all over at once, like someone had beaten you all around the head with a bat before you'd awakened. It's hard to move, your limbs impossibly heavy and joints stiff, and your vision is still just a blur of incomprehensible color, as painful to look at as the deafening ring in your head is to listen to._

_Slowly, the ringing eases, allowing you to make some sense of the world around you while your vision struggles to refocus. There's... voices, hushed whispers quiet enough to stay just that, and a mechanical whine and sputter from somewhere more nearby. You groan again and the whispers stop._

_Something moves into your field of vision, smears of blue and white and black, and something touches you. You can barely twitch in response as a hand comes to rest on the side of your head._

_It takes a few tries to understand the voice when it speaks, but eventually, through the ringing, you hear, "--think he's okay?" and "--other one--?"_

_Your vision blinks in and out as your eyes struggle to focus. Everything is still blurry, but a little less painful. All you can do is give another pathetic little moan -- your hands twitch against the hard ground, but nothing else moves._

_Until something grabs you about the arms and pulls you up, that is. Your body sags, but whoever it is keeps you upright, supporting your head as it lolls back and leaves you squinting at the light on the ceiling. Once you're firmly seated, leaned heavily against them, they gently jostle you, as if you aren't already awake. "can you hear me?" you finally hear, their voice still fuzzy to you but coherent enough._

_It's a struggle, but you manage to give a weak approximation of a nod which basically boils down to a jerk of the chin. You're still blinking blearily, willing the fog away bit by bit._

_"thank the stars," says a similar but different voice nearby._

_Another one grumbles and says as well, "yeah, but the fuckin' machine is toast. gonna hafta start all fucking over again."_

_"if we did it once, we can do it again," answers the first voice. Then, to you, they ask, "how do you feel? anything hurt? can you speak?"_

_Does anything hurt, they ask. Not really, apart from literally everything, you bitterly think -- but that isn't fair, is it? Obviously all the hurt is inside._

_With a grimace, you manage a small nod, wheezing out another groan as the headache pounds harder. It takes a few tries, but you eventually manage to find your voice and whisper, "head..."_

_Your voice is soft, and not just because of your lack of energy. Something tells you you're just a very soft-spoken and gentle-sounding person in general. It's one of the few things you feel you know for sure._

_Even just the one word takes a toll on you, though, and you slouch again, panting for breath. Feeling is starting to return to your extremities; there are pins and needles in your toes and fingertips, and a strange weight in your chest.You didn't even notice you were numb until it started to fade._

_The person holding you breathes a sigh and pats your skull. It's an oddly affectionate gesture for a stranger. "your name's papyrus, right?"_

_Things are starting to come back into focus; you can make out the rim of the ceiling light, just barely. To the question, you say, "i... i dunno."_

_There's a pregnant silence; none of the voices speak, none of the people move. Then the second voice asks, slowly, "you... don't know?"_

_You nod._

_A hand pats your skull again, but no longer affectionately; though you still can't see the person, you can tell from their movements that they're scrutinizing your head, probably looking for injuries. But you don't think you hit your head -- this kind of hurt isn't the kind that comes from physical violence, and it mildly disturbs you that you innately know the difference. You almost wonder if your head hurts because you forgot, instead of the pain being why you forgot._

_"not..." It's still hard to talk. You're recovering, slowly but surely, but it's still a little difficult to get the words out. "not hurt... jus' don't... r'member..."_

_The voices are quiet again. You keep blinking until the light has mostly come into focus, then crane your head sideways, a skull coming into view._

_Wow. A real, live skeleton, looking right at you._

_"... skeleton," you mumble in a dazed sort of delight. "you're... a skeleton..." Maybe you're dead, that would explain the memory -- but you're pretty sure death means no more pain, so maybe not._

_"i sure am, buddy," answers the skeleton with an odd sort of smile. He pats your head again. "and so are you."_

_"_ i'm _a skeleton..." you echo. The weight in your chest feels lighter as you finally look down, taking in the sights of your own bony body at last. It doesn't feel real -- but it feels very familiar, and yet very new too. The mixed feelings make your head throb again, and you hiss through your teeth, cradling your (bony!) skull with an equally bony hand._

_As you try to massage the ache away, full of wonder at your discovery, you miss the disturbed looks passed around by the other three speechless skeletons._

* * *

After that, the other three -- Comic, the one who'd been holding you; Ace, who looked similar, but sharper and meaner; and Script, who was tall and skinny, and looked a lot like the you in the mirror -- had brought you upstairs, carrying you with blue magic, and into an empty room. Comic called it a "spare", and Script called it "a little more comfortable" than the basement.

Which, it is. You get a bed and everything. But you've been sitting here for what feels like hours now, just you and the mirror, and still nothing _fits_.

You don't remember anything else. Not your name (except that you must be a "Papyrus" like Script, for all you look like him), not where you came from (just that you were alone), nothing. All you've got is what you learned in the basement and from the mirror.

Comic told you when he and the others left that they would be back soon -- something about clothes for you, and needing to talk to someone else before they do anything. He told you that this was your room now and to make yourself comfortable.

You haven't moved from the bed, though. It still doesn't feel real, and it doesn't feel quite safe, either. Instinctive anxiety chews on your insides, keeping you glancing back and forth from the door to the closet like you're expecting someone to walk through. Who, you're not sure, but someone. You haven't been truly relaxed since you first woke up.

When the door opens, it makes you jump, and the heavy metal collar fitted around your neck comes down with a weighty (and audible) _thud_ on your collarbones. Script winces as he closes the door behind him.

"hey," he says with a lazy wave, ambling over to the bedside. He drops a pile of clothes on your lap. "here, brought you some actual clothes. figured you'd want outta that paper thing."

It's a simple shirt and shorts -- probably Script's, considering they look similar to what he's wearing. The shirt is white with broad orange stripes, and the shorts are blue with white stripes down the sides. It's gaudy on so many levels.

Honestly, you kind of like it.

You still can't stand -- your bones are still prickling, and even just shifting them back and forth on the bed takes a toll on you -- but you have enough leverage to change without doing so.

Without thinking, your hand moves up to the paper gown's ties, one on each shoulder. Script makes a weird sound and spins around, cheekbones flushing orange. "i-i'll give you some space," he says quickly, and then -- he's gone.

Literally. He's just gone, in the blink of an eye.

Wild.

You blink again, wondering briefly what got him so bothered, then return to untying the paper gown.

It slips off easily. You can't help but stare, memorizing the bones underneath.

It's things like this that make you wish you could remember.

Your bones are covered in healed and healing scars, in all kinds of shapes and patterns. They're like the ones on your face, only... instead of clean cracks, they're filled in with a lumpy, off-colored material, giving your bones the approximate appearance of a thoroughly chewed white twig. Your ribs are especially eye-catching because there's a web of cracks sprawling across the whole of your ribcage, like broken china glued together again. You don't understand how none of it hurts -- but somehow, it doesn't, even when you poke and prod at the scars.

The one exception is a particularly angry-looking crack on your humerus; when you touch it, your vision goes white with the pain, and it takes you a minute to remember how to breathe. You decide not to touch it again, and wonder endlessly about where it came from while you change.

Thankfully, Script's clothing fits fine, even if the shorts are a bit... well, short. On Script, they come below his knee, but apparently you're significantly taller, because they stop halfway down your thigh. The shirt is a similar situation, leaving a few inches of your spine and the top of your pelvis showing.

But... it _is_ more comfortable. You hadn't realized how harsh the paper was on your bones until it was gone.

Script comes back in well after you've settled again, in the middle of you fiddling with your collar. Something about it screams to be left alone, but you're too curious -- what is it for, why do you have it? There aren't any seams, so how did it go on? How does it come off?

"so, uh..." he says, pulling a chair over from a reading nook in the corner of the room. He sits next to the bed, looking more and more awkward the longer the silence goes on. "... do you, uh, remember anything yet?"

You shake your head, still engrossed in the collar.

"oh. figures." Script doesn't seem to know what to do with you, and that makes you wonder why Comic didn't come back. After a moment, he says, "so, has anyone told you about this place yet?"

That catches your attention. You look up, head tilting. "no."

Script -- smiles. Finally. The awkwardness was relatable, but not helpful. "basically, multiverse theory plus time travel," he says. "this is kind of an... alpha timeline, i guess, and you and me and everyone else are from alternate branches. variations on a theme, kinda. the machine in the basement, it's in every timeline, and it's what pulled you through."

Multiverse theory. It feels familiar. Important. But you can't remember _why_.

Quiet, you nod along, both understanding and not understanding at the same time. It's a very strange feeling that leaves you with a bit of nausea in the pit of your stomach, like there's two parts of you that just don't fit together quite right. "so, i look like you... cuz i kind of am? and that's why comic called me 'papyrus'?"

"basically."

"i guess that makes sense." You look away, eyes (well, eyelights, you suppose, but that's gonna take some time to get used to) wandering the room. Everything you've been thinking about piles on your back like a physical load, the untold sins of your mysterious past.

You wonder, not for the first time, where you came from.

"you should have had a brother," Script says quietly. You don't think he meant you to hear, but you do anyway.

Something about the term feels familiar, too, just like multiverse theory. You can't help but feel like you should _know something_ and the void in your memory just seems to grow and grow.

"i don't remember," is all you manage to say. Because you don't.

It makes for a strange feeling of indescribable loss.

After a long, long silence, during which Script seems to get only more and more uncomfortable, you finally ask, "what now?"

Script hesitates. He's eyeing you strangely, shoulders just a little tense. It makes you wonder. "what do you mean?"

"what happens now?" you repeat, watching him, just watching. "i don't remember anything. i can't answer your questions. i'm useless to you."

"oh." The tenseness abates, replaced by a softer expression you can't really decipher. He hesitantly pats your shoulder. "well, there's no use trying to force info that isn't there. we'll work on that memory one step at a time. right now, we gotta get you comfortable."

"you're not sending me back?"

His hand tenses and Script's expression turns cloudy. "the machine is busted. we've been trying to repair it for a while, but every time we get close, it pulls someone else through and breaks again. so no, we're not. we can't."

Flashes of sparks and mechanical whines cut through your mind, derailing your train of thought. Your face does things you aren't quite aware of, and Script watches with no small amount of intrigue. "it was my fault," you deduce.

"it happens every time someone comes through," says Script.

You look down. Your hands are as scarred as the rest of you; you flex them a few times, observing the way the bones curl together. Some part of you is fascinated. The rest is... tired. "ace was angry because of me."

He laughs. It's a pleasant sound. "ace is always angry, don't take it personal."

"can you fix it?"

"course we can." Script mimics Comic's voice, his usually-soft tenor going deep and casual, "if we did it once, we can do it again."

You hum. "i wish i could help."

"we have some good minds on it," Script responds. He pats your shoulder again; part of you wonders why he keeps doing that, part greedily drinks in the affection like a drug, and the rest recoils in an apprehension you can't explain. "there's a lot of others you're gonna have to meet."

"now?"

"not unless you want to."

Your gaze falls to your hands again. "no."

"then tomorrow." Script makes to stand. "your stats are all out of whack. get some sleep; once you've recovered, we can get started on introducing you to the rest of the house."

"okay." You don't have the energy to argue. Instead, you lie down, hands folded across your chest.

The other skeleton heads for the door. He stops at the threshold, looking back to you with one hand on the light switch. "if you need help, i'm three doors down. just call my name and i'll check in."

"okay."

He leaves. The lights click off and the door closes with a strangely hollow _clack_.

You lie in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling. When you fall asleep, it's without ceremony, and without you actually noticing.

And when you dream, it's of a little girl, her face obstructed by dancing static clouds, sitting at your bedside, stroking your skull and singing a soul-wrenchingly familiar song.


	2. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If a picture is worth a thousand words, what worth is a reflection?
> 
> It's time to face your new world.

The world is peaceful and quiet when you wake up.

Without a window or a clock, you have no way of telling what time it is. Napping (because you don't think what you did was a proper sleep, somehow, not that you'd know for sure without asking someone how long you'd slept) only threw off what little sense of time you'd had even more. The room is dark, lit only by a faint strip of light bleeding under the door.

For several long minutes, you simply lie in bed and exist in the moment, watching the ceiling.

Everything is new to you, you've come to realize. Your face, your body, the sensations you feel -- and now, you're even in a whole new world that you don't belong to, with no sure way back and no traces of your past to speak of. You have no way to rediscover what you'd left behind. A blank slate in every definition of the word.

But there are little hints, you think. Little pieces of your past that refuse to go away, even with the tear in spacetime.

Like your collar, for instance. What little you've been able to observe about it leaves you with more questions than it does answers. It's cold and smooth to the touch, seamless with no clear way of taking it on and off. Something about the inside is rough to your hands, but when you look, it's too dark to clearly observe. Was it forged around your neck, or placed there through unknown means? Is it identification or restraint? Protection? Did it even serve a purpose?

Then there's your paper gown, the one you were found in before Script lent you proper clothing. Your healing scars, the gown -- it all suggests that you'd been hurt, but when, and how? Were you being tended to, or tortured? Were the injuries purposeful or accidental?

(You fold the gown and put it under your pillow. It's one of the few things you have from your world, wherever you're from, and you can't quite bear to part with it.)

And the girl from your dream... Something about her is so _familiar_. Your ~~chest~~ aches at the half-forgotten memory.

If you can figure out what they mean, you think you'll have a stepping stone into the rest of your past. If you just knew what they meant, if you could figure out what happened before the machine pulled you through, maybe it would help you remember everything else.

At least it would be a start.

But right now, you don't know. You don't know anything but that you're here in a world you shouldn't be because of a machine that shouldn't exist along with skeletons you should never have met, and right now, they know more than you.

You think you'd like if Script came back.

But you can't keep waiting -- no, you don't _want_ to keep waiting. The company is nice (in ways you don't really understand) but you think there's some things you need to do alone.

Like standing up.

Your bones don't feel numb anymore, and the staticky pins and needles feeling is gone too. Moving them under the blankets (how are they so soft?) is tiring, but not excessively so, more like moving your arms or sitting up. You're so used to being weak already -- you need to know if that's something you _should_ be used to, or if you can be... normal.

Or some kind of normal, at least.

Breathing a long, measured breath, you slowly turn back the (soft, so soft) blankets, revealing your scarred legs. They _look_ mostly normal. You can bend them just fine, flexing your (amazingly unscarred) feet -- but that doesn't mean they can hold your weight, does it?

So you slowly, _ever so slowly_ , swing them out, placing your feet on the carpeted floor. You take a moment to get used to the sensation (you don't remember ever _standing_ before) before you _s l o w l y_ shift your weight forward.

Your knees buckle immediately.

Luckily, you're still firmly seated on the bed, so you only slip a few inches before catching your balance again. Your brows furrow (how do they do that when they're made of bone?) and you try again, keeping a bracing hand on the headboard.

It takes a few more tries, and a lot of patience, before you're standing firmly on your feet. You keep a hand on the wall just in case, watching the floor as you try to parse the sensations rolling through your abused body. Mostly, it's a lot of bone-deep (heh) exhaustion, but there's an odd sense of pride welling in your chest -- and an ache in your hips, like you haven't ever stood before in your life.

Luckily, walking is (somehow) a little easier, and you manage to navigate to the light switch without issue. The more you move, the more it becomes natural, like remembering how to ride a bike decades after learning. By the time the lights click on, your awkward, staggered gait has evened out into a semi-confident stride.

That stride takes you back to the mirror, where you re-commit to memorizing your own face.

There's deep gray bags in the bones under your sockets, you notice now, even though it makes no sense for them to exist. The look in your sockets is as tired as you feel -- fathomless exhaustion blended with a strange, tired acceptance of your situation, of how lost you really are. The scar above your nasal aperture looks worse in the artificial light than it did before (nauseatingly, you can catch quick glimpses of the underlying structure to your face, despite your attempts to not notice them) and the way the light catches on your collar fills you with an unidentifiable sense of foreboding you don't really understand.

And... your green eyelight is gone. The socket is dark, and your white eyelight is dimmer than you remember, almost invisible under the light. Every so often, it flickers like a candle, flaring just a bit brighter for just a moment before it dims again. Like a ~~heartbeat~~. You look... broken.

More than that. You _feel_ broken.

Your whole body aches, you realize. Not like you've been hurt, but in that insidious kind of way where you don't really notice it until you've experienced what it's like to not hurt anymore. Now that the numbness from whatever brought you into this world is gone, you realize that you're sore all over -- the kind of sore that, you know without knowing how, never really will go away.

It's a lot to get used to.

You heave a sigh, running a hand over your skull like a human might through hair. The soft touch is relaxing like Script's laugh had been. There's still a part of you that doesn't feel at home in this body, but you've accepted by now that this is, indeed, you. Nothing you can do to change it. ~~Even if it doesn't quite feel like yours~~.

But... now what? You're up and awake, and you're not the kind of tired that sleeping can fix anymore. Script hasn't come back yet. Are you supposed to keep waiting for him? What happens next?

Maybe you should wait.

You turn to sit back on the bed -- then slowly look towards the door again. Didn't Script say you could call for him and he'd come? Maybe... maybe you should try that. You could even go find him, if you wanted to. It shouldn't be that hard.

But... you're nervous.

It couldn't hurt to try, right?

You turn towards the door.

⚐︎🕆︎❄︎ ⚐︎☞︎ 💧︎✋︎☝︎☟︎❄︎📪︎ ⚐︎🕆︎❄︎ ⚐︎☞︎ 💣︎✋︎☠︎👎︎📬︎

Your unlit socket itches. You take one step back, then another, and another, until your legs press against the bed.

Then you sit down, and you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Eventually, there comes a knock at the door, which cracks open to reveal a tired-looking Script. "oh," he says, "you're awake."

You raise a hand in greeting, but otherwise stay quiet.

He steps into the room, leaving the door ajar behind him. Through it, you can see an unremarkable hallway and another door, closed, on the other wall. There's a sign on it with colorful writing, but your sight isn't good enough to read it at this distance. "how'd you sleep?"

You lift a shoulder.

Script looks a bit perturbed, but covers it quickly. "so, are you hungry? it's almost lunchtime. my bro's makin' tacos." He tilts his head. "ever had tacos?"

"what's lunch?"

Well, that was the wrong thing to say, apparently. The other skeleton looks almost offended, face twisting in a comical frown. "yeah," he says, coming towards you, "i think we're getting lunch today. c'mon, big guy. think you can stand?"

You do so, easily, and discover that you absolutely tower over Script. There's easily a foot or more between you; he looks less than amused by having to crane his neck to meet your gaze. Your hands hover around for a moment, awkward and out of place, before slipping into the pockets of your borrowed shorts. "okay," is all you say.

Script blinks up at you. He mutters something about "it" happening again, looking cross, then smooths over his expression with a lackadaisical smile. He turns. "this way."

The journey to the kitchen is thankfully short, and full of new things to get used to. You find out that your room is the fourth of five (making Script's room the first, closest to the stairwell) and that the hall exits into a door, which then opens into another hall.

"magic," Script explains with a wiggle of his fingers. "we wound up with too many people and not enough rooms, so we used some spatial magic to expand the house."

That hallway then leads to a stairwell which brings you down into a large room ("the living room," according to Script) with a huge screen on one wall and a hideous couch on the other. Next to the stairwell is an opening into the kitchen.

Both rooms are filled with skeletons. As soon as you two set foot on the last stair, countless heads swing in your direction.

You freeze.

👎︎⚐︎☠︎🕯︎❄︎ 👌︎☜︎ 💧︎☜︎☜︎☠︎📬︎

The unlit socket _aches_.

Script, though, doesn't flinch. He smiles and gestures towards you instead. "everyone, big guy. big guy, everyone."

The first person to speak is a small skeleton with big blue irises and an equally blue bandanna, a toothy grin practically splitting his face from cheek to cheek. You swear he's vibrating. "PAPY, HE LOOKS JUST LIKE YOU!"

Oh stars. Why is he so loud.

"that's the nature of alternates, blue," Script responds good-naturedly, because of _course_ yelling is normal here. He has an easy smile on his face now, hands casually tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie. "tacos done?"

"I ACTUALLY HAVEN'T STARTED YET! YOU SAID YOU WERE GOING TO WAKE UP OUR NEW FRIEND AND I GOT SO EXCITED I FORGOT I WAS MAKING TACOS."

"ah."

"DO YOU WANT TO HELP?" It takes Script jabbing you with his elbow for you to realize that Blue is talking to you. He's staring at you with impossibly huge blue irises (which apparently turned into stars at some point while you weren't paying attention), bouncing on the balls of his feet.

You tense, glancing from Blue to the ground and back again so quickly it almost makes you dizzy. Why is he asking you? What would helping even mean? _What are tacos?_ "i... i, um, i-i don't..."

"i don't think he's ready for that," Script says when it becomes clear that you're floundering, flashing you a reassuring smile. You curl in on yourself, shoulders hunching like it'll somehow make you less visible. "maybe next time."

"OH." Blue deflates slightly for a moment, but recovers quickly, grinning a dazzling smile. You've got to wonder where all his energy comes from. "OKAY! I'LL GO GET STARTED!"

Thankfully, when he leaves, a few other skeletons follow along -- two taller ones like you in red body armor (the kinder-looking one of the pair, the one in mostly white, gives you an equally enthusiastic, if abbreviated, greeting, while the other, in mostly black, just sort of glowers at you in a way that feels very uncomfortably familiar) and one shorter skeleton in purple who gives you a disdainful sneer as he passes -- and the others mostly seem to lose interest in you, returning to whatever it is they'd been doing before you had come in. Script pats your shoulder and nudges you toward the gaggle of skeletons congregated around the couch before making his way there himself.

You hover awkwardly at the base of the stairs, unsure what to make of yourself at first. You don't really _want_ to meet the others... but do you really have a choice?

Maybe you could just... go back to your room.

But... that would be rude, wouldn't it? You didn't really want to be rude to the only person who's been nice to you.

_~~It'll be okay.~~ _

With a sigh, you accept your fate.

There are three skeletons on the couch, not counting Script, who throws himself down and sprawls out on one end. Two are familiar; one is new. One of the familiar ones looks at you as you approach, but the other two seem to be embroiled in a hardcore match of some video game you don't recognize.

(Not that you would recognize it anyway, would you?)

"hey," greets Comic, a casual smile like Script's pasted across his face. He's sitting upside down on the couch, his feet dangling over the back and head hanging off the front of the cushions, with his hands crossed on his stomach. "you're lookin' better already."

"be pretty fuckin' hard ta look worse," Ace grouses. Whatever he's playing (some kind of fighting game) has his attention firmly in its grasp, his sharp claw-like fingers pressing buttons so hard it's like he's trying to strangle the controller. He's scowling, one gold-capped tooth barely poking out of the corner of his mouth. Comic elbows him in the thigh and he makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a growl.

The other person with a controller is twisted sideways, back pressed against the couch's back and legs hanging over the arm. His expression is noticeably less stressed, almost bored, with the stick of a lollipop sticking out of his mouth. His eyelights flicker up for a half-second, meeting yours, then return to the television. "wow, you look like shit," he says by way of introduction. He looks like a lankier version of Comic, with a crack running from the socket down his left cheek.

"better than before, though," Comic hums.

"aren't you a charmer," Script deadpans. "c'mon, butch, is that any way to greet a new housemate?"

"fuck you," responds Butch in a very bored tone. Ace spits out a string of very naughty words and almost throws the controller. "be nice to my fuckin' shit, asshole."

"ain't your shit," Ace barks back, scowling harder.

Butch's eyes narrow. "i bought the fuckin' thing with my own goddamn money."

"it's got my fuckin' profile!"

"cuz i fuckin' let you _make_ one, you edgy-ass motherfucker."

"no fist fights in the house," Comic says.

"fuck you too," Ace responds. "i wanna rematch."

Butch scoffs. "you're gonna lose again."

"no i fuckin' ain't! gimme my damn rematch!"

He blows a raspberry and presses a few buttons. Ace grumbles and hunkers down again, brow furrowing so far you're amazed his face doesn't crack.

"welcome to the house," Comic says with a shrug. "they're always like this."

You nod absently, observing the ongoing chaos with no small amount of awe. It's all so... _normal_.

Did you ever have something like this?

~~You remember loneliness.~~

This... this is going to be your life now, isn't it? Until the machine is fixed again, and until they can send you... home. Wherever, whatever that is. ~~Is it really home if you can't remember it? _Do you even want to?_~~

You inch closer to Script, bending deep and lowering your voice until it's barely audible, even to yourself. It still feels like you're screaming. Like you're going to get in trouble. "wh-who... who is building the machine?" you ask in a hoarse whisper.

"huh? oh." Script jerks a thumb sideways, towards Comic, Ace, and Butch. "mostly these three. sometimes sage, butch's brother, but he's mostly theoreticals and magic conductivity. i help out sometimes too, but i'm more of a programmer than a physical engineer."

"when... when is it going to be fixed?" _When do you have to leave?_

Script gives you a funny look. His shoulders raise and lower once, his smile honest and helpless. "i don't know."

"why?"

"why don't i know, or why won't it be fixed soon?"

There's a sound you don't recognize roaring in your nonexistent ears, and your chest feels like there's a rock sitting in the middle of it, weighing impossibly on your not-lungs. You give a helpless little shrug. "both, i guess?"

He looks away, expression mixed between frustrated and contemplative. "it's complicated mechanics," he begins, "and we don't have the full blueprints. just parts and pieces, all of 'em different between us. nothing fits together right; we're putting it together as we go along, and we don't know if it's gonna work or not 'til it either blows up or doesn't."

"and we gotta be careful, too," adds Comic. You jump, not having noticed that he was listening until just then, but he's still focused on the match waged on the television to pay attention to you. "the void doesn't like being messed with."

Script nods grimly. "that's how all this happened. all it took was one mistake," he snaps his fingers, "and we got a cascade started. so now we have to fix not just the machine, but the spacetime continuum, too, before the inevitable occurs."

You almost don't want to ask. But you do, because you have to know. "... what's the inevitable?"

"implosion," Comic says simply. "time collapses in on itself as the hole gets too big to stay stable."

That doesn't sound very good. Some of the specifics are making some sense, but you get the feeling you were never really a theoretically-minded person because this all sounds way over your head. So you look away, toying with the injury on your arm. "oh."

"luckily for us," he continues in a surprisingly upbeat tone, "butch and his brother helped build a functional time machine in their universe. so with any luck, enough of the theory will match up that once we can get the machine to stop dragging others in, we can start fixing the problem and send everyone home like nothin' ever happened."

You... shudder. Why does that sound so ominous? "and... if we don't want to go home?"

Script and Comic hesitate. They seem to share a look despite not looking at one another, the quiet stretching on and on for what feels like hours but is likely only seconds in real time. Then Comic says, "then we'll figure something else out." He finally looks at you, right in the sockets, and says, "promise."

He sounds so honest. So confident.

And you might even believe him.

~~But it might not be his decision.~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still feels like something's missing.
> 
> updates might be odd, i've got a very busy schedule and a fickle muse.
> 
> butch and sage are from another original au, the circumstances of which will come up sometime in the future.


	3. Heart to Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody said that family had to be by blood. Sometimes, all you need is a bunch of familiar strangers with an idea of what you've been through to help you get through your darkest days.

You spend a while in the living room, hovering awkwardly next to the couch while Butch and Ace digitally duke it out in what you eventually learn is Mega Clash Sibs, a popular multiplayer fighting game. From what you can tell, Butch spent most of his time in his universe either working on his own version of the machine or playing this particular video game; apparently, the console (a Gentendo Swap, supposedly, though no such console exists in this world) is his, brought through the breach in his inventory.

("what's an inventory?" you asked Script, overwhelmed by the number of things in that explanation that you didn't understand.

Script patted your shoulder sympathetically. "it's a long story, but basically, an inventory is a place where you can store a lot of things in a very small package."

"oh," you said, not understanding at all. "okay.")

You're eventually introduced to a few more members of the household, too -- Sage, Butch's brother, eventually comes downstairs to join his brother on the couch, apparently having slept clear into the afternoon like he habitually does. Another tall skeleton in red, this one by the name of Ginger, comes downstairs just to flop into the recliner by the television and fall right back asleep again with his hood over his eyes. A nearly identical skeleton in different colors (mostly brown and gray) follows shortly after, introducing himself as Slim (and as the short skeleton in purple's brother; angry purple skeleton is given the name Sabre) before joining the growing menagerie on and around the couch.

According to Script, Ginger's brother, who is a skeleton very similar to Sabre by the name of Marquis, should be returning home from his overnight job as a security guard soon. The idea of another skeleton who automatically dislikes you doesn't fill you with much enthusiasm.

At least Sage and Slim seem nice.

There's just... so many skeletons in the room. You have no idea how to handle this many skeletons being in the room.

You've by now migrated to the corner of said room, nervously switching between staunchly minding your own business and trying to remember each skeleton's name and face. It's a real challenge, especially with so many of them looking nearly identical. How are you supposed to tell Slim and Ginger apart from each other when the only difference, aside from color choice, is which side the scar is on?

And then there's something about all the pairs that's been bothering you from the get-go, something Script had mentioned earlier, before your... was it a nap, or a sleep? You still haven't asked. If it's lunch now, when did you even fall asleep?

You shake your head. There'll be time to worry about that later. For now, there's a bigger concern.

_"you should have had a brother."_

Script had said that with such _certainty_ , like there's some basic universal law that you're breaking by your very existence. You can remember foggy snippets from your awakening, too, of the three who found you wondering where the "other one" was. You're missing something -- a brother -- that you never even knew you had.

And looking around, you can... honestly believe it.

Every skeleton in the house has a brother. For every tall one, there's a short one -- for every Sans, a matching Papyrus. Ace and Comic's brothers, both tall Papyri, are in the kitchen with Script's brother and Slim's brother. Butch and Sage sit together on the couch, muttering to each other in the spaces between MCS matches. Even Ginger has a brother -- another small one, just like Slim's.

And then there's you.

~~Alone~~.

You don't even remember your own identity, let alone whether there was (or is) anyone else. It makes for a strange sort of tragedy that's hard to fully grasp -- a loss that you can't truly understand.

Did you ever have a brother? Would you know him if you saw him, without your memory?

Is he the reason you can't remember?

What would he be like? You're a "Papyrus" which means he would be a "Sans", right? So he would be shorter than you, and... rounder. Softer. Less angular in face and body, like the other Sanses, right? And if you're the casual one (because that's how it looks to work, is there's one relaxed brother and one bombastic brother) then maybe he would be loud -- maybe in body armor, like the ones in the kitchen. But you would still look alike -- maybe you would both have the same eyelights, one white and one green.

But that's not how everyone else works, is it?

Now that you look, there's... no one else with eyes like yours here. Ace and his brother both have two red eyelights, as do Ginger and, presumably, his brother. Slim's are both lavender and Sabre's are both violet, Blue's are bright baby blue while Script, Comic, and his brother have white, and Sage has two green while Butch has two yellow. You're the only one with odd eyes -- and the only one with one dark socket, too.

Because, wasn't your green eye lit before you went to sleep? When you woke up, it was dark, but you don't really feel like your vision is different from before. It's like your eye is still working, just invisible. Is that a thing you can do?

Why is your green socket the one that's failing, anyway, if your white socket is the one that's cracked?

You're deep in thought at this point, completely absorbed in the millions of questions that have filled your mind since you first woke up in this unreal-but-real body and world. So you don't notice someone approaching you.

"hey," comes an unfamiliar voice suddenly. You jolt, lost in a blinding panic (did something beep?) before a steadying hand falls on your shoulder.

Alarmed, your head snaps up, and you reflexively twist away from the touch.

~~Why didn't it hurt?~~

Slim wears a cockeyed smile, looking so much like the skeleton in the mirror that for a moment, you're unsure whether you're hallucinating or not. There's a smoldering brown bone poking out of his mouth. " _bone_ -jour, heh. heard you're the newbie," he says, his voice raspy and cool like a crisp draft. "looked like you got a lotta questions rattlin' 'round up there. figured i'd, eh," he looks you up and down, gaze lingering on your scars and collar before returning to your eyes, "get you _caught up_ , if you get my drift."

You're... uncomfortably tense, all of a sudden, and you're not really sure why. It feels like Slim's stare is piercing you to the marrow, pinning you under some unknown spotlight -- like you're being judged for those sins of your unknown past.

It takes a moment for you to find your voice, but eventually, you manage to croak out a quiet, "do you know something?"

His expression is as guarded and enigmatic as his answer, despite his casual demeanor. "maybe. depends on the question." He tilts back on one heel, swinging the other leg around like he's leaned on thin air. "so shoot."

This is an opportunity to learn something about yourself... but --

~~_Don't trust him._ ~~

\-- something inside you writhes at the idea of offering up what little information you know about yourself to someone you don't know you can trust. He hasn't earned it. Trust has to be earned, not freely given. ~~You learned your lesson.~~

"... no," you say carefully, watching him without blinking. Your socket itches, but you don't dare scratch. "no, i... i think i'm okay."

"huh." For a moment, you swear Slim's lavender eyes flare a different color, but it's gone in a flash and you're left doubting what you saw. His smile shifts to an unreadable one. "have it your way, then." He gives a lazy two-fingered salute, though his eyes never stray from yours. It's deeply uncomfortable. "offer's open whenever you decide you, heh, got the _guts_ to take me up on it."

Watching him leave, sauntering back to the couch like nothing happened, fills you with even more confusing mixed feelings you just can't parse. Is this what interacting with all the other skeletons is going to be like? Stilted, awkward conversation where all of you keep dancing around each other, waiting for the other's true motives to come out?

You don't think you like conversation if it's all exhausting like this.

And then lunch is going to be ready soon, and while you can't deny that most of you is ravenous, there's a small but loud voice in your head screaming that you should _get out_. Because if it's this hard to navigate conversation and emotions with _one_ skeleton, how hard will it be when there are eleven more?

Without consciously realizing, your hand drifts up to pick at the aching crack in your humerus.

Are they all going to be talking to you at once, or will they be lined up, all watching and waiting while the others pick your bones? There's already two that you don't think like you, are they going to start a fight? If that happens, is Script going to help you, since he seems the most sympathetic towards you, or will he leave you to the wolves for the people he's known longer?

You... you don't know if you want to stay here anymore. But... _can_ you leave?

"LUNCH IS NEARLY READY!" chirps a familiar, but different voice, startling you from your thoughts. Comic's brother has poked his head into the den, wearing a brilliant smile and... a tall white hat and apron that reads " ~~KISS~~ COOL THE ~~COOK~~ SKELETON"? What even is this house. "PLEASE RELOCATE YOUR COLLECTIVE LAZY BONES INTO THE KITCHEN!!!"

"don't _patella_ me what to do," Script says with a sideways grin.

"c'mon, i thought we were _pasta_ this," chuckles Comic. "pap's not _soba_ -d."

"THOSE ARE NOODLES, NOT PASTA, WHICH MEANS YOUR PUN IS INVALID," Smiley-Papyrus chides, before wandering in and scooping Comic up like a sack of flour. Comic just makes himself comfortable with a cheery grin as he's carried into the kitchen, waving goodbye to the rest of you.

You hang back, watching the others head into the kitchen (after Script wakes Ginger by yanking the drawstrings on his hood, cinching it around his face and startling him into snorting, and then swearing, himself awake). Something inside you tells you that this _should_ be a harmless affair, maybe a good chance to learn something about your new world and new housemates.

The rest of you thinks this is a very, very bad idea.

But you don't want to disappoint Script, so, with great reluctance (and no small amount of second- and third-guessing), you make your way into the kitchen as well.

It's exactly as insane as you feared. Just not in the way you expected.

The kitchen is significantly larger than you'd been expecting, and especially larger than it looks from the outside. Some forgotten part of you calculates an approximate 30 feet squared of usable floorspace, with ample hardwood cabinets, hideous linoleum flooring, and not one, not two, but three large tables, each with eight chairs, along with two additional stools at a breakfast bar attached to the working countertop. Milling about within the kitchen is all the skeletons you've met thus far -- four in assorted body armors bustling about the stove and workspace, seven in various states of "sitting down at the table". Butch and Sage have migrated to one of the tables, sitting alone with the Gentendo Swap propped up between them, completely oblivious to everything outside of their little world. Ginger has, predictably, passed out at another table, and Slim is sitting next to him, meticulously balancing cutlery on top of his head. He's on his fifth knife with no signs of stopping. Comic sits a few seats down, toying with his cellphone with a lazy smile plastered on his face and a steaming mug in his hand. Script appears to be in the middle of pestering Blue, and Ace looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, camped at the end of the third table with a deep scowl etched into his face.

It all looks so... _domestic_. And you feel absolutely zero nostalgia for any of it -- so doesn't that mean that you never had anything like this? There's been passing moments of familiarity with other things, so if you'd ever been in any kind of situation like this (anything _normal_ , why can't you be _normal?)_ then wouldn't you feel _something?_

Each thing you learn you've never experienced really just makes you feel even more alone than before. There's a room full of people bustling around you and you feel miles away, watching the world turn on without you.

You don't realize that someone's talking to you, once more too absorbed in yourself and your spiralling thoughts, until a hand takes you gently by the arm.

Blue keeps smiling up at you, even after you've jumped out of your metaphorical skin. There's a plate in his hands with something -- presumably a taco -- on it, somehow smelling better than it looks. (Have you had food before? Actual food that has a smell -- or has it all been something else? You hate not being able to remember...) "Why Don't You Come Sit With Me And My Brother?" he asks in a surprisingly soft voice; his voice is a lot huskier when he isn't practically shouting, but less in a harsh way and more in a very older-brother-ly way, somehow. It's... calming. "I'd Like To Get To Know You Better. Papy- I Mean Script- Says You're A Very Nice Person."

You blink owlishly at him, looking from Blue to Script to the plate and back and forth again while your mind burns the metaphorical brakes trying to make sense of what he just said. You have a lot of questions, but what ends up coming out is a strangled, "he _talked_ about me?"

Oh stars. If you didn't sound like you were hiding something before, you definitely do now. You stumble over yourself, trying to think of a way to correct what already came out, but Blue -- huffs a laugh, and waves a hand, patting your arm sympathetically. "It's Okay!" he says cheerfully. "I Know This Is New To You, I Don't Blame You For Being Worried." His expression softens in ways you don't have words to describe. Almost nostalgically, you think. "Papy Was Worried About How You Were Acting And Asked Me For Advice. I Promise Nothing Bad Was Said."

What a nice person. _"You don't deserve this,"_ something inside you says -- you don't know what it is or where it's coming from, but you... can't help but agree. Aside from Slim's... odd behavior earlier, everyone has been surprisingly accommodating for you, especially considering your unique situation.

Do you _really_ deserve all this niceness...?

"why... are you being so nice to me?" you ask after a moment, your lone eyelight dimming further. Blue's expression falls from one of comfort into one of worry that you don't- you can't understand. You grip your elbow with the opposite hand, looking away, at the floor. _None of this is fair._ "i-i'm not... i don't _deserve_ this."

"I-"

You interrupt him with a harsh shake of the head and a firm " _no."_ It's hard to verbalize how you're feeling, but you want to, you _need_ to make them understand. "i-i'm not anyone special -- i don't think i'm anyone good," you mumble at the floor. The room's gone quiet, unnaturally so, but you don't notice, once again too absorbed in your thoughts and their spiralling nature. (This is becoming a bad habit.) "i don't... i-i don't remember anything good -- a-and, and you don't _know me_ , even _i_ don't know me, i-i could be a- a murderer or something!" Oh, now _there's_ a good spiral. "i-i could- i could hurt all of you... a-and you won't- you're all just so _nice_ to me and i haven't _earned it-"_

Someone swats your hand -- it'd been inching towards the crack in your humerus, the one you've been picking and picking until it's grown from a hairline crack into a chipped and splintered mess. Blue looks at you with a determined set to his expression, big blue irises locked on your one dim little white eyelight. "DON'T TALK LIKE THAT," he reprimands, and you flinch, looking away again. "NO, LOOK AT ME." Reluctantly, you do, and Blue gives you a very stern look. "THAT'S BULLSHIT."

One of the other skeletons in the room _"ooh"_ s, and Script looks at Blue like he's lost his mind for a moment before folding his arms and looking at you the same way. "he's got a point," he says, and the voice he says it in leaves no room to argue.

"you don't know that for sure," you mumble.

Ace scoffs. "right, cuz yer fuckin' SOUL is a liar." You almost ask what he's talking about, but he keeps going, sounding more and more fed up with your bullshit as he does. "listen, kid, i get ya forgot a lotta shit. it's gotta fuckin' suck. but see, there's this thing called 'yer SOUL' that can't tell a lie no matter how hard ya wanna, and it's sayin' yer ATK is a big fat fuckin' _negative thirty._ "

Wait. What?

"YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING," says Black Leather Papyrus at the stove. Wow, his teeth are... pointy.

"nah, nah, it's fer real." Ace smiles a not-unfriendly but also definitely not friendly smile, all teeth and nothing else. "see, kid, yer SOUL's tellin' us yer literally such a fuckin' pansy-ass motherfucker that you got _negative_ intent to hurt someone. that means if ya try attackin' anyone, yer gonna _heal_ 'em before ya ever even start _hurtin'_ 'em. yer literally the worst bad guy on the fuckin' planet. i ain't never seen a negative ATK before, and i seen plenty'a stats."

"but"-

"can't argue with the SOUL," Comic says with a lazy wave of the hand. You... hadn't realized so many people were listening to your little meltdown and subsequent talking to. Actually, looking around now that you're not wallowing in your own misery, you notice that... _everyone_... is looking at you. Even Ginger, with his cutlery crown and all.

Suddenly ashamed, you try to shrink away again, only for Blue to catch you by the sleeve and pull you into some kind of awkward side-hug between him and his brother. (Script looks uncomfortable, but he doesn't protest or lean away.) "SEE?" He beams a bright grin at you. "WE'RE NICE TO YOU BECAUSE WE KNOW YOU'RE A GOOD PERSON INSIDE! YOU DON'T HAVE TO REMEMBER YOUR PAST TO BE A GOOD PERSON. AND YOUR PAST IS EXACTLY THAT -- THE PAST!" His expression changes somehow, smile becoming a little tighter and eyes a little more compassionate. "THIS IS A NEW WORLD, AND NOTHING YOU MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE DONE IS GOING TO HURT YOU HERE."

"but if you want to heal," Script adds with a meaningful Look, "you're gonna have to _want_ to first. and that means you can't let your fear of what you might have been stop you from being who you want to be."

You... don't know how to answer. So instead of finding words, you just lean into the embrace, resting your chin on top of Script's head. "okay," you manage to whisper after a long moment.

It's not much, but it's enough.

"GREAT. NOW CAN WE GET ON WITH EATING FUCKING LUNCH YET?" Black Leather Papyrus barks. His foot is tapping a mile a minute on the linoleum. "THE STUPID FUCKING TACOS HAVE BEEN DONE SINCE BEFORE THE UNNECESSARILY SAPPY PEP TALK. IF THEY GO COLD AFTER ALL THE WORK I PUT INTO THEM, I SWEAR I'M GOING TO STRANGLE ALL OF YOU WITH YOUR OWN SPINES."

"love you too, valor," Comic says breezily, and a couple of the others laugh. Black Leather Papyrus -- Valor, now, you suppose -- snaps his jaws closed and grumbles to himself much like Ace (boy, you can see the family resemblance) before starting to angrily serve up tacos.

Blue indulges in one last squeeze (Script makes a hilariously accurate squeaky toy noise that actually gets a little surprised snort out of you, and then looks very proud of himself for it) before letting the two of you go, grinning up at the both of you. "WE SHOULD PROBABLY EAT BEFORE VALOR DECIDES TO FOLLOW THROUGH WITH HIS THREAT," he cheerfully says, taking you and his brother each by the hand. You're still not sure how to feel about it, but for now, you decide to let him do as he will. "COME ON! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'VE NEVER HAD TACOS BEFORE."

And if you enjoy your tacos a little more than you normally might, nobody says a word about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like writing valor. he's a fun character. still trying to figure out slim and sabre -- they have very distinct voices in my mind and i want to get them right.
> 
> so, here's the gist on nicknames, for anyone who likes it nice and clear-cut the way i do:  
> UT bros: comic (sans) and chief (paps, not yet used)  
> UF bros: ace (red) and valor (edge)  
> US bros: blue (still blue) and script (stretch)  
> SF (fell!underswap) bros: sabre (black) and slim (mutt)  
> FS (swapped!underfell) bros: marquis (also black) and ginger (also mutt)
> 
> the original nicknames were comic's idea and got him banned from nicknaming anyone else by majority vote. ginger's nickname is a noodle incident that stuck (to his neverending chagrin), and marquis and sabre definitely dueled over who got what name.


	4. Two Sides of One Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some friends are clear in their desire to help you. Others, maybe not so much. But not everyone who wants to help will mean you well -- so be careful and watch the hands you shake.

Surprisingly, lunch goes very well, considering it's the first time you've ever had lunch (that you can remember) and you're surrounded by strangers in a new world with no real idea what's going on. Marquis returned home midway through, looking deeply exhausted and very much like he was pretending not to be, judging from how he kept subtly stumbling and fighting back yawns. He stopped in the kitchen only long enough to exchange glares with Sabre and greet everyone else (quite grumpily, but not unkindly), giving you an appraising look before announcing that he was going to retire to bed for a few hours.

Script clarified to you that he really did mean 'a few hours' when he said it. "him, sabre, and valor barely sleep at all," he explains through a mouthful of taco, disregarding his brother's obvious disdain for the action. "even chief gets up later than they do, and he swears he doesn't sleep. those three are up before the sun is and don't go to bed until well after everyone else. i don't know how they do it."

It's around then that you asked how long you had slept for, curious since you didn't remember anything from before to give you any standard metric for your own sleep cycle.

Turned out it was a full day and a half. Go figure.

"THAT'S WHY I WAS SO EXCITED TO MEET YOU!" was Blue's addition to the explanation, his big irises warping into stars. "PAPY SAID HE WASN'T SURE WHEN YOU WERE GOING TO WAKE UP, AND WHEN HE WENT TO CHECK ON YOU AND DIDN'T COME BACK RIGHT AWAY, I GOT REALLY SUPER EXCITED!"

"that's also why i was surprised that you were awake," said Script. "i didn't know if you were gonna wake up today or if it was gonna be a few days of sleeping off the, uh, metaphorical jet lag, so to speak. plus, if you were anything like the rest of us 'lazy personalities', i figured you could sleep forever if you really wanted to."

"what do you mean by 'lazy personalities'?"

Script and Blue exchanged a look. Then Script said, "that's something we should wait for comic and ace to be around and help explain. it's... complicated."

Lunch continued as normal after that. After a while, everyone else seemed to trickle out of the room as they finished eating, with a few of the louder skeletons retiring to the backyard for 'training' and most of the quieter skeletons just up and vanishing without preamble, presumably to their own rooms or for private projects. Soon, all that remains in the room is you, Script, and Blue, all clustered around one table together, and a few others -- namely, Ginger, who appears to have fallen back asleep with his head on the table, and Sabre, who keeps shooting you glares and sneaking glances at you when he thinks you're not looking between collecting plates and cleaning tables. You guess it must be his turn for chores today, or else you don't think he'd willingly choose to be around you.

And you're pretty sure that Blue and Script have decided to adopt you as a new brother; they've been throwing possible nicknames back and forth for the past ten minutes after realizing that you were the only one without one, Blue suggesting constant flowery and/or sweet nicknames while Script seems intent on bestowing upon you the absolute worst pun he can possibly think of. It's humbling to witness. You didn't really know that anyone else could care about you like this.

Well, before now, you didn't know that anyone could care about you at all, but that's beside the point because you have no clue what your life before was even _like_.

Back to the matter at hand, now.

"I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY, PAPY," Blue's in the middle of saying, gesticulating passionately with the hand holding his taco. You have no clue how he's not throwing bits of taco all over the kitchen, but everything is staying perfectly within the shell, casually defying the laws of physics. "WE'RE NOT CALLING HIM ANYTHING RELATED TO HIS SCARS, LACK OF MEMORY, OR MAGIC COLOR! I CAN'T BELIEVE I HAVE TO LECTURE YOU ABOUT COLOR NICKNAMES TOO."

"it's not a color nickname, it's _fancy,"_ Script argues. He'd finished his taco long ago and gotten himself a drink that's approximately 15% tea, 5% ice, and 80% honey. His third, actually. You'd politely declined his offer to taste it. " _vert_ is 'green' in french, so no one's ever gonna think it's a color, they're gonna think he's _fancy."_

"I'M NOT ARGUING THAT IT SOUNDS FANCIER, I'M ARGUING THAT IT'S STILL A COLOR!"

"okay, then what about-"

"ENIGMA ISN'T A NAME EITHER, PAPY. YOU CAN'T EVEN SHORTEN THAT TO SOMETHING NICE."

"then-"

"NEITHER IS BEANPOLE. HE'S NOT EVEN THAT TALL!"

Script crosses his arms and pouts. "he's taller than _me."_

Blue rolls his eyes. "YOU'RE TALLER THAN ME, BUT YOU DON'T SEE ME CALLING YOU A TREE, DO YOU?" He turns to you then. "WHAT DO YOU THINK? ARE THERE ANY NAMES YOU LIKE SO FAR?"

"i kinda liked stabathor," you admit quietly. Blue facepalms with the hand holding the taco and miraculously doesn't spill it everywhere. This man is a miracle of scientific probability.

"I SAID NO TO STABATHOR THREE TIMES ALREADY," he complains.

"i still kinda like it..."

Blue gives one of those long-suffering sighs you're starting to associate with older brothers before grumpily devouring the remainder of his taco. Then he gives you a dirty look, planting his now-free hand on his hip. "YOU'RE VERY HARD TO NICKNAME, YOU KNOW!"

You lift one shoulder. "sorry," you say, even though you're really kind of not. Egging Script on is hilarious, as are Blue's hilariously over-the-top reactions. Is this what being a little brother is like? It's kind of fun. They seem happy to see you interacting normally with people, especially in a more positive sense than you'd started out the day earlier.

It's... nice, having people care about you. Even if you're not sure why they care, or the extent to which they care, the fact remains that they do, and they're trying to show it.

"SO," Blue says, using blue magic to carry his plate over and into the sink, where Sabre is in the middle of washing dishes. He pauses for a moment to cast a glare in your direction, before he makes eye contact with you, freezes, and then quickly resumes what he's doing with a derisive huff. "GOING DOWN THE LIST, WE HAVE FLEUR, HUMMINGBIRD (WHICH WOULD SHORTEN TO HUM), HONEYBEE, PEACHES (OR PEACH!), WILLOW, BIRCH..." Blue's voice turns sarcastic, one brow going down and the other up, "TIM, ENIGMA (I'M NOT CALLING HIM EGG!!), JIMOTHY, HANK HILL, RETRO OR AMMY FROM RETROGRADE AMNESIA, STEVE, STABATHOR, GREENIE, VERT, NOODLE, MEPHISTOPHELES, AND... JOHN."

"i still think noodle fits," Script says to you with a shrug. "you're about as dangerous as one."

"WE'RE NOT CALLING ANYONE NOODLE! OR STEVE!! _OR EGG!!"_

"what about rune?" comes a new (but disturbingly familiar) voice from over your shoulder.

You nearly jump out of your metaphorical skin, toppling your chair in your frantic rush to get away from whoever had snuck into your personal bubble. By the time you've made it behind Blue, on the other side of the table, Ginger's practically fallen over laughing, absolutely in tears at your getaway. He's got his head in his arms and his arms on the table, wheeze-laughing in that uncomfortably-similar-to-Slim's voice.

"GINGER!" Blue scolds, shaking a gloved finger at him. "WHAT HAVE WE TOLD YOU ABOUT SNEAKING UP ON PEOPLE?"

Ginger gives what sounds like a death knell before lifting his head. There's tears in his sockets, glinting red in the artificial glow of the kitchen light. "sorry, sorry," he wheezes, dragging your abandoned chair up and falling into it in one smooth motion, like it was practiced even though it clearly wasn't. "nyeh _-heh-heh_ \-- that was great, i couldn't resist." He holds out a hand with a lopsided smile on his face that highlights his gold tooth. It's a much friendlier smile than Slim's, despite their similarities. "nice ta meet'cha, kid. name's ginger, but you knew that already."

The thought of leaving him hanging crosses your mind. But of all the things you've picked up so far from this world, the one that sticks out the most right now is that you're not supposed to leave a hand unshaken unless you really don't like the person offering it, and really, despite a few missteps, you can't really say you dislike Ginger. So, watching him cautiously, you slowly reach out and lightly take his hand.

It's wet.

He laughs at the look on your face as you yank your hand back, visibly grossed out, and check it over to find it coated in something clear and slimy. "vaseline prank gets the best faces, i don't care what no one else says," he says with obvious pride on his face. Somehow, you get the feeling he doesn't get to pull off little pranks like this very much anymore. Probably because he's in a house full of jokesters, as you've managed to pick up during the banter between Script and Blue.

Blue opens his mouth to reprimand him again, but you gently pat his shoulder with your not-gross hand. Yes, it was nasty, but... you kind of like that he's already pulling pranks on you. Makes you feel like family, kind of. "i'm... someone," you respond quietly, tilting your head towards him. "apparently papyrus."

"welcome to the club," says Ginger. He plops his chin into his hand. "startin' to think we oughta make t-shirts. you really oughta consider rune, though. they're magic, mysterious, and sometimes a little dangerous. sounds a lot like you, if ya ask me. plus, short and snappy's always good in a name, makes you sound cool."

"i still like stabathor," you answer with your own smile.

Blue groans loudly. "YOU'RE AS BAD AS PAPY!" he screeches, and you, Ginger, and Script all laugh, yours hesitant at first but quickly becoming less so as Ginger and Script's loud, boisterous " _nyeh-heh-heh_ "ing starts worming its way through your walls. Then Blue grins, and before long, all four of you are laughing. It's not about the joke anymore, you think.

You think... you might be laughing because of something else. Something good.

Maybe the first truly good thing since you woke up in this world.

Slowly, your laughter trickles off, leaving behind a warm glow and a soft, gentle smile you don't think you've ever worn before. Around you, it looks like that's a common outcome, Blue smiling his usual radiant grin and Ginger and Script wearing matching sideways smirks. "i might," you say after a moment, leaning back in the chair. Laughing like that is more of a workout than conversation is, and now you're breathless and a little sore. The good kind of sore, though, you think. Not the bad kind that's still radiating all throughout your bones, an endless miasma of dull, throbbing pain that comes and goes each passing minute. "nothing really fits yet. i guess i'm waiting for something that does."

"might take a while for that." Ginger plays with his jacket, rolling one of the hoodie's strings around his finger and back again. "going by a new name kinda sucks, dunno if anyone's told you yet. guess you kinda get off a li'l easier since you, eh, don't really remember having a name that _fits_ before."

The mood sobers up a bit, Blue's smile turning strained and Script's into a bit of a grimace. Your lost memory seems to be more of a sore point for them than you'd expected -- though, honestly, you hadn't really expected anyone else to be as concerned about it as you had become. "THAT ACTUALLY COMPLICATES THINGS A BIT MORE," Blue admits, knitting his fingers together before him. He flexes and relaxes them intermittently, watching the way his gloves crinkle and smooth with the motion. "IT'D BE EASIER FOR US TO PICK SOMETHING HE LIKES IF HE REMEMBERED _WHAT HE LIKES."_

"yeah," says Ginger, looking away, "yeah, i can see how that makes things a li'l harder." After a moment, he looks back to you, mouth quirking up at the corner. "so. stabathor, huh?"

You give another laugh, albeit much weaker this time than before. "yeah... it's fun," you say, "but i don't think i'd like to... actually use it as _my_ name."

"could be a username," Script suggests. At your odd look, he waves a hand, adding, "i'll explain later."

"AS MUCH AS I LIKE MY NAMES, I THINK RUNE MIGHT BE BEST FOR NOW," Blue muses, half to himself and half to the rest of you. He's propped his chin on his intertwined fingers now, brows furrowed. "IT'S NICE AND SHORT, AND WE COULD EASILY CHANGE IT LATER ONCE YOU'VE HAD A CHANCE TO FIGURE OUT WHAT YOU DO AND DON'T LIKE."

You hum softly. "i guess so."

Rune, huh? ~~(Your unlit socket itches.)~~ Not a bad nickname, you suppose. Ginger's right, something about it really does feel 'snappy', even if you're not quite sure what that means, exactly.

And it feels... _familiar_ , somehow.

It's still not your name, but it feels a fair sight better than 'Papyrus'.

The other three skeletons all exchange pleased looks for a moment, looking quite proud of themselves for figuring out a possible nickname. Their smiles soon fall from their faces, however, when a loud, haughty voice interjects, "WHAT A FITTINGLY PATHETIC NAME FOR SUCH A PATHETIC SKELETON."

Script's expression turns stormy, smile sharpening. "got a problem, sabre?" he asks lowly, in a voice that very much suggests the offending skeleton mind his own business. You look over your shoulder, unable to resist the temptation.

Sabre is staring at you with big violet eyelights, expression twisted in disdain, with crossed arms and a deeply unimpressed scowl on his face. "I _SAID_ ," he repeats, "THAT SAD EXCUSE FOR A 'NICKNAME' IS AS PATHETIC AS THAT EVEN MORE MISERABLE EXCUSE FOR A SKELETON!" You can hear someone growl behind you, but you don't turn to look, watching Sabre instead, barely even listening to his harsh words. He gesticulates emphatically with each word, involving his entire body in his speech like something out of a movie rather than real life. It's hard to believe these kinds of theatrics could be personified in such a manner. "I MEAN, REALLY. _NEGATIVE_ HOSTILE INTENT? FEH! TELL ME, HOW DO YOU EXPECT TO SURVIVE IN THE _REAL_ WORLD?" He sneers at you. "EVEN A _MOLDSMAL_ CAN CHOOSE TO DEFEND ITSELF. IT'S PATHETIC. _YOU'RE_ PATHETIC."

"HEY!" Blue snaps, "THAT'S NOT NICE! YOU NEED TO APOLOGIZE TO RUNE RIGHT NOW!"

"APOLOGIZE? FOR TELLING THE TRUTH?" The violet skeleton huffs and turns up his nose dismissively. "I SHOULD THINK NOT."

There's a loud scuff as Blue abruptly stands, marching around the table in a flurry of baby blue bandanna and righteous anger to jab a finger into Sabre's chest. Sabre bristles and opens his mouth, but Blue cuts him off. "I'M GETTING VERY TIRED OF YOUR ATTITUDE, SABRE! YOU CAN'T KEEP DOING THIS EVERY TIME SOMEONE NEW COMES THROUGH!"

"OF COURSE I CAN!" Sabre snaps back, swatting his hand away. Across from you, Ginger half-rises from his seat, expression dark in an uncomfortably familiar way. "SIT DOWN, YOU MISERABLE EXCUSE FOR A PAPYRUS! NONE OF YOU HAVE ANY ROOM TO JUDGE ME, LEAST OF ALL YOU!" He gestures towards you, scowl towards Blue deepening. "YOU CANNOT SINCERELY EXPECT ME TO _RESPECT_ AN ABOMINATION OF SOUL SCIENCE LIKE _THAT_ THING! YOU KNOW JUST AS WELL AS I THAT HIS STATS ARE IMPOSSIBLE! SO EITHER HE IS _LYING_ TO ALL OF US AND CONCEALING HIS TRUE STATS THROUGH UNKNOWN MEANS, OR HE IS A FREAK OF NATURE THAT SHOULD NEVER HAVE PASSED INFANCY!"

"That Is Quite Enough!" comes a new voice from the doorway.

It feels like your skull is the ball in a tennis match, bouncing back and forth between Blue and Sabre and now over to the door to the living room, where an incensed Marquis stands, looking rather fed up with all of your shenanigans. He's wearing luxurious-looking silk pajamas in a gorgeous gold-threaded maroon and a near-carbon copy of Sabre's scowl, leaning against the doorframe with an expression on his face that radiates 'done with this' energy.

Sabre bristles further at the appearance of the nearly-identical skeleton and barks, "NO ONE ASKED FOR YOUR OPINION, IMITATION!"

"You Clearly Did When You Chose To Wake The Dead With Your Pointless Blathering," Marquis snaps back. As you'd suspected, his eyelights are a bright red matching Ginger's, and flicker over to you and back to Sabre again in the blink of an eye. "Screeching Obscenities At An Amnesiac For Peculiarities He Cannot Explain... Is This Really An Adequate Use Of Your Time?" His voice turns sarcastic. "Surely Someone As Honorable and Intimidating As You Has A Proper Agenda To Pursue, Rather Than Pointlessly Harassing A Target That Cannot Properly Engage."

"THIS IS A PERFECTLY ADEQUATE USE OF MY TIME!" The other skeleton's face has turned a bright purple by now, whether in anger or otherwise, you're not sure. His fists are clenched so tightly you can hear the neoprene of his gloves squeaking from where you sit. "DON'T YOU DARE JUDGE ME!"

"Personally, As A Near Clone Of You," Marquis replies sardonically, "I Think I Am Uniquely Positioned To Judge You And Your Irrational Behaviors. The Fact That You Disagree Speaks Volumes About Your Logical Thinking Capacities."

"MY-!? YOU-!!"

There's a dull _snip_ sound like a thin piece of plastic breaking and then Slim appears in the kitchen as well, looking both perturbed and impossibly amused. He tucks his hands into his pockets, giving Marquis and Sabre each a sideways look in turn. "enough of the cat fights," he drawls, moving over to place a hand on Sabre's shoulder. Sabre almost attempts to shake it off, before huffily crossing his arms and standing there with a pout poorly disguised as a scowl replacing his incensed expression.

"Ah, Good, There You Are," Marquis says with a pleased smile. He claps his hands twice. "All Right Then, Off With You. The Rest Of Us Have Better Things To Do."

"don't push it," says Slim with a thin smile on his own face. It's not friendly. "i'm not doing this for you. c'mon, sans."

And then he and his brother are both gone without a trace.

"thanks," says Ginger very quietly, lowering his head.

After ensuring that Slim hasn't reappeared anywhere nearby, Marquis sighs and leans heavily against the doorframe, casting you and your... friends? new brothers? a disinterested glance. His left eye flares bright yellow for just a moment before blinking back to red. "He _Is_ Right," he admits, though his tone remains neutral. "Your Stats _Are_ Theoretically... Eh, Improbable. I Suppose Impossibility Is Out Of The Question, Considering Your Current And Continued Existence."

You look down at your hands for a moment, before reaching up to toy with your collar. "i know," you reply. You're not sure how you know, but you do, because now that you think about it, you don't think anything involving a living being should ever be able to be negative without something extremely wrong happening to them. "i don't know why."

"Your SOUL Isn't Visible, Even To A Judge Such As Myself. The Two Phenomena May Be Interlinked," he comments mildly.

Script sighs and nods. "i noticed that, too. so did comic and ace. we're trying to let him settle in a little before we try any SOUL science -- it's really invasive, and..." There's a long pause, during which he and Blue exchange looks you can't decipher. Then he continues, carefully, "i don't... think rune here's ever... _had_... privacy."

The room feels very quiet all of a sudden.

Marquis blinks. Then his eyes narrow and he leans forward a bit, arms crossed and expression curious. "How Do You Mean?"

For some reason, Script looks at you and asks, "can i tell them?"

You blink. "tell them... what?" you ask, utterly lost.

Script's expression pinches, and he looks utterly devastated in ways you can't really explain, like the floor just fell out from under him. It lasts for only a second, though, before his expression returns to one that's merely concerned and serious again. "can i tell them about our interactions when you first got here? in your room?" he clarifies.

Oh. Why does he need permission to talk about that? "yes...?" you reply after a moment, brow slowly rising. Didn't he already talk about everything that had happened between the two of you? You'd kind of expected that he would -- it feels... _natural_ , somehow, like the natural order of things, how things were supposed to happen.

Was... was that a _bad_ thing?

The other skeletons around you, sans Marquis, exchange complicated looks that you don't know how to read for several long ~~heart~~ beats, Blue and Script in particular giving each other grim, tight-lipped (or as tight-lipped as magical skeletons can get) nods before Script returns his attention to Marquis, who he flags over. Marquis rolls his eyes and comes in closer, taking a seat at the table with a flourish that might have been more dramatic were he wearing a cape. Everyone leans in, voices low -- except you, because you choose to sit and watch, your hearing good enough to make out what is being said regardless, and because you're not exactly comfortable with the closer quarters of the huddle.

"when we got here," Script starts in a hushed tone, "comic asked me to grab a change of clothes for rune, cuz he showed up in this messed up medical kind of paper dress humans are supposed to wear when they're getting surgeries and it made everyone real uncomfortable wonderin' where it came from. so i did, and when i gave the clothes to him, he started stripping right in front of me like it was totally normal. i don't think he understood that you're not supposed to do that."

"maybe he just has no filter?" asks Ginger, sounding very unconvinced of his own argument. He glances back at you, then at Script again, looking nervous. "or- or maybe his sans just didn't teach him-?"

"he doesn't _have_ a sans," Script hisses. "not that we can tell."

Blue hums softly. "To Be Fair, He Doesn't Remember Anything. Didn't You Say You Had To Tell Him He Was A Skeleton When He Woke Up? Maybe He Just Forgot."

"I Highly Doubt That," scoffs Marquis. He has his hands folded primly before him, looking all the world like he's at an important meeting with superiors rather than an informal gathering with dimensional clones of himself and his brother, and an impossible-to-read blank frown on his face. "Some Behaviors, Such As Modesty, Are Permanently Ingrained Into The Mind Once Learned. Unless He Specifically Forgot _Everything_ , Including How To Walk And Talk, That Sector Of His SOUL Shouldn't Have Been Affected By His Memory Loss."

"which leads to the obvious conclusion..." Script trails off, looking deeply disturbed, and Blue sympathetically rests a hand on his shoulder.

'Obvious'. There's nothing obvious about it, not to you, so after a long moment deliberating whether or not you really want to know, you slowly, meekly raise a hand and mumble, "um... what conclusion...?"

The other skeletons exchange a look -- Ginger, Blue, and Script are clearly trying to suss out the nicest way to say it, but Marquis has no such compunctions.

"The Obvious Answer Is That You Are An Absconded Lab Experiment," he says very bluntly, regarding you with cool eyelights like telling someone that their body and SOUL didn't belong to them was an everyday occurrence, "And That Your Memory Loss Is Inextricably Linked Not Only To Your Escape, But To Your SOUL And Your Reason For Appearing Here."

You don't think you like where this is going. Not with the ominous look on his face. "which means...?"

Marquis steeples his fingers before him, staring, it feels, into the very core of your being. "Which Means," he continues, "That If We Are To Find Any Real Answers Regarding Your Identity And Situation, We Must See Your SOUL."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope my foreshadowing is actually working and not either too hamfisted or too obscure.
> 
> marquis and sabre are such an interesting dichotomy of swapfell interpretations. marquis is heavily based off of the iteration found in 'Dirty Laundry' by popatochisp, while sabre is based off of popular fan interpretation. they're very similar, yet very different at the same time, and so are their brothers.
> 
> i have an [undertale tumblr](http://badtimebabe.tumblr.com) where anyone can ask questions about the story, the characters, etc. if you'd like. i also intend to post some sketches and factoids about the characters when i have time, but having a full-time lab job makes it difficult sometimes.


	5. SOUL Searching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phobias are irrational fears of things beyond your control. Fear is a gift to the senses from ancient times -- a warning of danger and things gone terribly wrong. Where's the line between fear and phobia drawn when you don't know which fears are rational and which aren't?

It's a funny thing, amnesia. Everything seems so much less concerning than it does for everyone else -- probably because you don't have all the learned fears and anxieties that they have, and because you don't exactly have anything to be afraid of losing beyond your own life. You're a blank slate; there's memories there, sure, but they're buried where they're not blurred to the point of incomprehensibility, and it's not like you can access them at will, either. Something has to trigger them. Effectively, you have nothing to start from but the instincts that are so ingrained into your being that they can't be erased. Those are your only clues as to what may have once been.

And that's what has everyone so concerned, you ponder, sitting alone in your room once again. It's nothing you've personally done, but your instinctual reactions that has everyone concerned about you and where you came from -- the fact that you have no modesty, that you don't have conversational skills, that you have absolutely no inkling how to do anything normal except walk, talk, and eat unassisted. Hell, you can't even use magic; Marquis had made a point of checking you on that, trying to instruct you into pulling your SOUL yourself, but you hadn't been able to do much more than sense it in your own chest. Apparently your stats corroborate that little tidbit -- " _absolutely harmless_ ", Ginger said about your Check. Your ATK is unchanged, and your DEF is nonexistent (in that there is no number in the section, just a blank space). You don't have anything, not even the one thing you absolutely should have been born with.

A monster without magic. It's a wonder you're alive.

None of the others were confident enough in their healing abilities to pull your SOUL for you, but Script promised to track down Butch and Sage as soon as he could to ask them for help. Sage, as it turns out, is the resident expert on SOUL mechanics, purportedly having worked side by side with his world's version of Dr. Gaster (who is apparently an important scientist whose existence was lost to the Void for everyone but a select handful, in every timeline) and a human liaison to establish a new field of science. One that is, as Script had promptly informed you, severely lacking in most other worlds.

Which is something you've come to realize is something of a point of contention between seemingly everyone else and the pair, evidently.

Butch and Sage, you've learned, are possibly the most different of the skeletal pairs in the house, standing out even amongst all the strange personalities. For starters, unlike the other sets of brothers, they're explicitly twins, with Butch being only two and a half hours older than Sage. Their personalities are also strikingly different; instead of one distinct 'lazy' personality and one distinct 'excitable' personality, both share elements of each. Sage, for instance, tends to sleep late and wake up slowly, but he's also the more organized of the two, while Butch rises early, but is forgetful and messy. Both have certain subjects that they can talk for hours on, and others that they simply cannot be bothered with.

And then there's their world -- the biggest difference between them and the others.

The two of them are, according to Blue, from a world where mages sided with monsters in some great war, choosing to defend them against the rest of humanity. Their world is evidently the only one where this happened, to anyone's knowledge; in all the others (at least of those currently known), the mages chose to side with humanity and sealed monsters into the 'Underground', where most of the pairs in the house apparently resided before the machine yanked them into Comic and Chief's world.

You've been told the only reason Butch and Sage are so knowledgeable about the machine, or at least its theoretical mechanics, is because they're from a timeline where they had access to more information and more powerful magic. For that same reason is Sage's in-depth knowledge about SOULs, says Script -- he comes from a world where mages and monsters work together to understand what they are, how they work, and where magic comes from, which is information that no other timeline has access to. And that's why Script decided to ask him for help with your SOUL. If anyone will know what to look for, it's him.

It doesn't make a lot of sense to you, but then, not much about monsters does, with your memory the way it is. So, as with everything else, you chose to just go with it and hope it all comes together later.

And then there's something else that's been bothering you, too, and it isn't your memory or your SOUL or your collar. Sure, they're certainly concerning, but you don't have enough information to really be _bothered_ by not knowing about them; they're just sort of a part of life right now, even if it concerns everyone else enough that they're hunting for a specific dimensional duplicate to Check your SOUL. You've kind of been living with them since you woke up.

No, what's bothering you right now is, once again, your hypothetical brother.

You've heard about him so many times now. Theories on what happened to him, questions about what he was like, the endless stares and murmurs between them all, even now, as they talk about you, all alone, the only one without a brother. It's almost as bad as the speculation regarding your origins -- they get so passionate about it, like something is horribly metaphysically _wrong_ with your existence because _you don't have a brother_. It's so...

... _annoying_.

Almost as annoying as the fact that you've been sitting alone in your room for an hour by now, told to stay put while the others navigate the bizarre amalgamation of physics-defying spatial spell-anomalies in the house to track down the twins. You didn't _want_ to stay behind, you _wanted_ to be included -- but something inside you pulled tight like chains, made you nod slowly and quietly plod into your room like some kind of mindless automaton. And now you can't leave. Every time you do, the feeling pulls tight again, and it doesn't let go until you're sitting back down on your bed again.

Another can of worms that you can't be bothered to care about right now, except for the fact that it's stopping you from being involved.

So instead, you're grouchily kicking your bare feet, glaring at the mirror like it personally insulted you. It's not that you're really angry, per se, but more... put off? Frustrated? Is that the right word? It feels like the right one. Ever since you got here, other people have been making decisions for you -- where you sleep, what and when you eat, where you sit, what you should be called, and now what to do with your SOUL. Sure, they might know more than you, considering your skull's still as empty as it started, but couldn't they at least _try_ to include you? You want to know what's going on just as much as they do.

And it feels like they're hiding something from you, too. Every time you've asked, they've avoided the question about what your theoretical brother means. Anything at all, any information whatsoever, it's like they're allergic to the topic. Comic, Ace, and Script, you kind of expected the behavior from -- they've been cagey from hour one, probably because they're the ones who saw you not understand that you're a skeleton immediately and have to learn that fact by one of them actually pointing it out to you. Most likely, they don't have the highest opinion of your mental faculties right now, or your ability to really keep information 'down', as it were. And honestly, you can't really fault them from it. But Blue? Ginger? Hell, _Marquis_? Is there some kind of memo going around telling everyone not to tell you anything about this brother you should have had? Because no one wants to talk. They don't even entertain the idea, they just redirect you to something else or act like they didn't hear you clearly. Or, if they're Marquis, they straight up tell you they have nothing to say to you on the matter, in almost those exact words.

It really feels like they're hiding something.

You kick your feet again, thumping them back against the underside of the bed through the thick quilted comforter. Most of the furniture in this house is a little short for you, but you've gathered that with all the height disparity among those living here -- Valor's even taller than you, for example, while Blue seems like he barely reaches your chest when he isn't bouncing around the way he does -- it's hard to keep furniture of a comfortable size for everyone involved, so you're thankful you've at least got a bed where sitting down gives you a little space between feet and floor. Sitting flat-footed right now with all the energy pent up inside you as it is would be torture.

Plus, it's long enough for your lanky ass, which is an added bonus.

Blue was supposed to wait with you. Script said something to him about keeping an eye on you, but as soon as he and the others had gotten out of sight, Blue had taken off with the shortest possible apology to you, sprinting down the halls with his bandanna fluttering like a cape behind him. Impressive, really. He probably developed the speed to compete with his brother's ability to fucking _teleport_. So you've been alone this whole time. Again, not that it bothers you, particularly; you're just getting kind of tired of being in the dark.

Not... literally, though. The lights are on in your room. It's a metaphorical thing.

Feet stilling, you sit up a bit, placing a hand over your chest with a furrowed brow. What about your SOUL has everyone in a tizzy? You hadn't actually known what a SOUL was until Marquis had explained, granted with a very clipped and abbreviated summary but explained nonetheless. It's the culmination of your being, the very representation of 'you' as a person; you'd known from the start of the explanation there that there had to be something wrong, considering your missing memories, but he'd gone on to explain that normally, monsters are incapable of hiding their SOULs from each other in confrontations and from Judges (which he ignored every question of yours regarding, so that means it's another topic you're going to have to badger someone over). Since yours can't be seen, the only way to see what's wrong with it (and something very much must be, for you to be in the condition you are) is to directly view it. But that's apparently dangerous? Because something about pulling an injured monster's SOUL can destabilize their form and cause bad things to happen that he wouldn't go into detail about.

So really, all you'd gained from the explanation was that 1) your SOUL exists and 2) it's messed up, but no one knows how or why.

Information is in such short supply right now, it seems.

Thanks to Marquis, you've learned how to sense your own SOUL (which is apparently something else that you should have already known, and can be added to the tally of "normal behaviors that Rune doesn't understand" that's got everyone so worried) and you take a moment to meditate on it now. Soon, you can feel its gentle _ha-thum_ again, beating softly against the inside of your sternum like waves against a distant shore. For a moment, you just sit there and bask in it, listening to the song of 'you' float peacefully through your body, through your very being, entirely at peace for the first time in... well, ever, so far as you know.

This was how far you got before, with Marquis. It's... soothing, in a way, hearing the thrum of the magic that makes up your physical form as it pulses its way along. But try as you might, you're unable to shape the flow of the magic the way you supposedly should be able to -- you can't wrap your SOUL in your magic and coax it out into the open. Every time you try, the magic just falls apart, like sand in the water.

It's still progress. Just not the kind of progress you wanted.

Luckily, there's other progress to be made. You're shaken from your meditative state by a knock at the door, and jump half out of your metaphorical skin, managing a belated, "c-come in," after blinking at the door in mixed surprise-confusion for a moment. Maybe they'd found Sage already and you could move on with your life?

But it's not Sage at the door, nor is it Script or Blue or Ginger.

Instead, Comic shoulders his way in, flashing you a lazy smile as he leans against the door to click it closed. "heya, kiddo," he greets in that gravelly drone of his alongside a two-fingered salute. "how's the house been doin' you? hear you got to meet a few others."

So now it's social hour again, apparently. You shift uncomfortably, reaching up to fiddle idly with your collar. "it's been fine," you answer quietly, your eyes off in the corner of the room but keeping the other skeleton well within your peripherals. It's not that you don't like Comic, you're just... not as comfortable around him as Script and Blue. And maybe Ginger, by now, too.

When you don't offer more information, Comic chuffs out a semi-forced laugh. His sockets are crinkled in a way that looks both casual and concerned, and you're starting to think that's just an older brother thing because you saw Blue make the exact same face several times by now. "i heard sabre tried to start somethin' with you earlier. 'm glad slim 'n' marquis intervened, he can get kinda carried away."

"yeah."

There's another uncomfortable moment of silence, and you're not willing at all to say anything to break it. Awkward silences are a fact of your life at this point.

Then Comic sighs, and he steps closer, pulling the chair from a desk combo near the closet to sit backwards in it with his chin resting on the back. He crosses his arms around it and just watches you. "listen," he says, "i know there's... a lotta things weird going on right now. and i know there's a lot you don't know. about yourself, about us, about this world..." He makes a vague gesture. "... and i know script and the others are tryin' to figure them out in-house cuz they're used to keeping everything quiet. but i got a friend we could go see. you probably knew her in your world, just... obviously you don't remember. point is, she's a friend, and she can check you out and make sure you're okay." With a meaningful look, he adds, "and she might be able to help you."

You watch him wearily, tugging on your collar. It doesn't move too far; even though it's a loose fit on your vertebrae, it's still tight enough to stay where it should, even with a little application of force. "who is she?" you eventually ask. Even if you don't know who she is, you still want to know _something_ about her. And Comic's caginess is making you nervous.

"her name is alphys," he answers automatically. Then he looks a little nervous, scratching one cheek. "she's, uh... eh, she was the royal scientist, back underground. things changed after we surfaced, but she's a smart gal. knows a couple doctors, too."

Why does that make you nervous? "what kind of scientist?"

Comic's smile strains. "mostly robotics."

"and what else?"

"little bit of everything. mechanical engineering, programming, the like. some SOUL science."

There's a weird clattering sound you can't identify, until you pay attention to it and realize that it's _you._ You're shaking, imperceptibly to the eye but it feels like you're going to shake yourself apart inside. Even though you're a skeleton, your mouth feels dry. "experimental science?"

A strange look comes across Comic's face, then a flurry of emotions -- surprise, consternation, realization, horror, pain, sympathy, and then a sort of grim acceptance. He nods slowly, but says, "voluntary," for some reason -- why can't you stop _shaking?_ You wrap your arms around yourself like you're going to hold yourself still, confused and full of some anxiety you don't understand and- and you're _afraid,_ why the hell are you _afraid?_ What are you _afraid of?_

"hey," Comic says, suddenly much closer than he was before, and you jump again, but he has his hand out to calm you. Then he places both hands on your shoulders, leaning in closer, his eyelights locked on your lone one. "hey. focus on me, kiddo. breathe for me."

Confused, you do, only to realize that you'd been holding your breath at some point? Which still doesn't make any sense? When did that happen?

Fingers snap in front of your face, jolting you out of whatever spiralling haze you'd caught up in. "hey, focus on me." Comic takes an exaggerated breath. "can you do that? c'mon, copy me. big _in,"_ he inhales slowly, waiting until you follow his lead, "and then _out..._ " and he exhales, again exaggerating it until you've caught up. Then he repeats the action, waiting patiently each time for you to copy him before moving to the next step, over and over again.

When he finally stops, letting go of your shoulders, you're not shaking anymore. He looks relieved, and pats your shoulder approvingly. "feelin' better?" he asks.

You nod your assent. Honestly, you hadn't even noticed you'd started panicking until he'd gotten you calmed down, but _wow_ did it take a lot out of you. You're _exhausted_. "thanks," you mumble, and he waves you off with a smile like it was nothing before taking a seat beside you. Oh stars, he's going to ask you about it, isn't he? How are you going to explain that you don't know what you were so afraid of?

"so, i noticed blue and script have taken a liking to you," he says instead, his tone calm and relaxed like he hadn't even just been soothing you down from a panic attack. The whiplash is stunning, but he doesn't give you a moment to question it. "can't really say i'm surprised. well, kinda, on script's part, but not blue. script's always been kinda slow to warm up to people." Comic laughs softly. "shoulda seen him with me. he was suspicious for weeks -- took him months to warm up to ace and ginger. he still doesn't really like marquis or slim, but that's probably a difference of personalities more than anything. but you?" He gives you that same wide, relaxed smile you'd seen him give his brother before, at lunch. Relaxed and warm, like a lazy sunbeam -- which is fitting, you suppose. "he took right to ya. speaks to your character, don't you think?"

Ah, right. He's referencing your little meltdown earlier; you flush slightly and duck your head, averting your gaze like it'll change anything. "i guess," you mumble.

"just sayin'," he hums good-naturedly. "kid doesn't like just anyone, and here he's putting you in his pocket like a little stray froggit." With a tilt of his head, he adds, "i've been thinkin', you know. about who you might be. pretty sure you're close to either script or ginger, from how you act. it'd explain why they like you so much."

"what do you mean?"

"i mean," he says, "your home universe. someone's explained the gist of the timelines to you, right?"

"kind of?" Does the explanation about Butch and Sage's world count? It has to, right?

He chuckles and tucks his hands into his pockets, moving around until he's lounged comfortably in your bed. You pull your legs up to sit cross-legged, facing him. "all of our worlds are based on the same facts," Comic starts, holding up his hands. He splays them out and lines them up so each finger matches up. "but each one is slightly," he tilts one hand, so the fingers are just slightly out of line, "off. same story told in different ways. make sense? we're pretty sure this timeline -- my timeline, for the record -- is the 'template' timeline, or the one everyone else is based off of. and then the rest of the timelines are all slight variations on a theme; generally, things are the same, but there's key differences. like in ace's world, it's the same people in the same positions, but everyone's less compassionate and more aggressive. in script's world, everyone switches places, so the king becomes the queen, the captain of the guard and the royal scientist trade places, that kinda thing. same story, but everyone swaps parts. for slim and ginger, their worlds are both of those things, but under slightly different circumstances -- two equally likely outcomes of one equation.

"and you... well, judging from how you act, how you look, and all that, i'm pretty sure you're right there between ginger and script," he finishes with a smile. "not exactly a copy of either one, but kind of a... middle ground, i guess." Slowly, folding his hands behind his head, he adds, "but i could be wrong."

"oh," is all you say for a moment. It's a lot to take in, but it makes a certain kind of sense, you think; Script seems to understand you in a way beyond words, with his uncanny intuition for how you feel at any given moment, while Ginger and you seem to share a lot of mannerisms, maybe stemming from a common background in a not-so-good place. You both flinch when someone moves too fast or talks too loud, you both stick close to the edges of the rooms, you don't talk so much and prefer being on your own, so on and so forth... It really would make sense for you to be some kind of "in the middle" version of them, you think.

And that gives you some headway on the subject of your brother, too. "so then, my sans..." you ponder out loud, missing Comic's visible flinch. "my sans would be somewhere between blue and marquis, right?"

"uh... yeah, most likely." Comic gives you a funny look that you don't see, too introspective to really pay attention to the visual cues of the world around you.

Your mind is racing, putting together what scraps you know into a somewhat-cohesive picture. So he'd wear either blue or red, or maybe even purple, like Sabre, because isn't Sabre another version of Marquis, according to the others? And judging by your eyelight, his would be white as well, because yours isn't red and you haven't seen a pair where only one brother has red eyelights. He'd still be shorter than you, with a rounder skull and a stockier build, and those big, wide sockets just like the other two. ~~And a gap-toothed grin, with sharp little canines just like yours.~~

Wait, what?

Everything halts suddenly as you blink and try to think back, try to remember whatever little anecdote had just popped into your skull, because you _know_ it had. What had you remembered about your brother? Stars, it's on the tip of your _tongue--_

Your unlit socket aches suddenly, and so does your chest. You hear a beep.

So does Comic. He sits up all of a sudden, grabbing you and pulling you down to his level with a serious look that does not belong on that usually-relaxed face. You yelp and get halfway through asking him what he's doing when he cuts you off, grabbing your collar with a "this is no normal collar, is it?" hurriedly falling from his mouth. You don't get a chance to ask a second time because he suddenly pulls you closer, half yanking you off-balance and forcing your head at an odd angle as he fiercely examines the black metal band around your neck. He's running his fingers around it, likely looking for a seam like you had, and you try to tell him that there isn't one but he cuts you off and says, suddenly so very certain, "this is why we can't see your SOUL."

Uhh... what?

"what?" you say dumbly, because you're way beyond confusion at this point.

"this collar," he repeats, shaking it (and you) slightly. You just kind of bobble along, totally lost. "this collar is why we can't see your SOUL. i'd put money on it, and on it being why you can't use magic and why you lost your memories."

Hmm. Yes, of course, what logical sense he's making. Wisely, you answer, "uhh...?" because _of course_ this doesn't make sense. "it... beeped...?"

Comic gives you a Look. You haven't been here for very long, but you've learned by now that this is the look of Older Brother Irritation, and also of "I'm way too smart for this bullshit" for those of you with working metaphorical brains. "and what were you doing when it beeped?"

"i was... thinking?"

"about what?"

"well, i..." Your brow furrows and you try, once again, to remember. "i was thinking about my brother, and what he's gotta look like, and... and i think i remembered something..." Stars, what _did_ you remember? You knew it was _something_...

Once again, your eye and chest burn, and you hear another little beep. Then the pain, and the thread of memory you'd been following, fade away again, just like before. You sigh and shake your head. "i don't remember."

"exactly." Comic's grin turns manic and he shakes you (and your collar) again. "you forgot what you remembered, right? but only after _this_ beeped."

"i don't think correlation always equates to causation," you mumble under your breath.

Comic seems to hear you anyway, though. "it does with a repeat trial," he says, "which i just performed. i'm sure if we keep trying, we'll keep getting the same result."

"maybe?" You shake your head. "i don't see how my collar's stopping me from seeing my SOUL, though."

"i don't either," he admits. "but we can find out." He runs his fingers around the inside of the collar again, which, _wow,_ that really feels weird against your vertebrae. "i can feel indentations on the inside. my guess is either runes or circuitry, and whichever it is, i'm betting there's some mechanism that they're 'talking' to that's keeping your SOUL hidden and your magic blocked." Oh, he's on a roll now; he spends several minutes detailing complicated theories on how your collar is working to cancel out your magic or reverse the polarity on your SOUL to keep it from responding to outside magic like a SOUL container, and all the technical speak is way beyond your ability to understand, so you just sit there half-bent over with your head at an awkward angle and try to nod along where it seems appropriate. After several minutes, he seems to work through his theory himself and (thankfully) releases you, and you sit up and take several minutes of your own to appreciate how nice it is to not have your neck cranked all the way around like a bobblehead.

Beside you, Comic bounces to his feet, looking far more enthusiastic than you think he's ever supposed to look. Something tells you that an enthusiastic Comic is what started the whole dimensional cascade in the first place, and you're hard-pressed to argue with it considering he'd talked about reverse engineering the tech in your collar should it turn out to be what he thinks it is. He flashes you a dazzling (and terrifying) grin. "so," he says, "i'm gonna go talk to the others about it, and i think tomorrow we should visit alph to check up on you. there's a couple machines in the lab we can use to test my hypothesis on that collar."

Ooh, labs, exactly the thing you didn't want to be involved in. You rubs your neck and grimace at him. "do we have to?"

His smile slips and for a moment, he looks a lot like Blue, suddenly very concerned. "if you're nervous, we don't have to yet," he says placatingly, putting his hands up. "i mean, we should still go see her as soon as we can to make sure you're medically okay, but it can wait a few days if you want."

You continue to grimace at him, less because of the lab now and more because despite yourself, you know he's right. The sooner you get it done, the better... unfortunately. So, you heave a big sigh and shake your head. "no, tomorrow will be... tolerable."

And just like that, his smile's back. He pats your shoulder again, because that's apparently a thing with Sanses for you. "i'll make sure script and blue get to come. i'll go let 'em know the plans."

And then he's gone.

At this point, you're kind of getting used to people being able to just evaporate into thin air as soon as they're done with you. Just fucking teleporting like it doesn't break all the laws of physics. It's probably not a good thing to be used to, but you're getting used to it.

With a sigh, you fall back on your bed, staring at the ceiling with an odd sense of foreboding. It's probably just the anxiety about labs that's telling you something bad is going to happen, right? Just that unknown nervousness that you can't explain, the one that makes labs inexplicably terrifying to you and fills you with dread at their mention, the one that's probably absolutely harmless. Right? It's all going to be fine.

You'll keep telling yourself that, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter didn't want to be written. i went through three drafts and wound up cannibalizing parts of two for the final version. sorry if it comes across as stilted or rushed, i just wanted it done already.


	6. Conscience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it better to be ignorant and safe in your naivete, or to know the truth and all the risks that come with it? I suppose it depends on whether you're prepared for the answers you seek.

You're dreaming again.

When you fell asleep, you're not sure; everything after Comic vanishing into thin air is fuzzy, like you're looking at it through clouded glass, and there's no clear line to define where you were awake and when you fell asleep. But you're intimately familiar with the feeling of dreams, somehow -- that distant hazy feeling of detachment from everything around you, even your own body -- and this most definitely is one.

Before you sprawls a long, empty hallway, lined with bare gray walls and blank gray tiles, its destination shrouded in darkness. The hall is utterly silent except for the familiar pounding of your SOUL in your chest, and the air is still yet so thick with tension you could cut it with a knife.

All you can smell is dust and dread.

Looking back, you see more of the same: another endless gray hallway, its end equally dark. The only light in this place seems to be coming from you -- or more specifically, a glowing white shape in your chest. A little white heart, sitting upside down in your ribcage.

Despite your desire to see it, something tells you that you absolutely should not look at your SOUL right now. You, knowing the capricious nature of dreams, wisely heed the warning.

Standing here isn't going to accomplish anything, so you start to move forward, filling the empty hall with the soft clicking of your bare tarsals against tile. All you find is more hallway the further you walk, but you press on, unfazed, because this is how dreams always are, aren't they? You're here for a reason. Once you walk long enough, you'll find out why.

And so you continue to walk.

And you walk,

and walk,

and walk

for what feels like hours.

~~_You shouldn't be here._~~

Ah, there it is. It's a familiar sensation, these words that seem to appear in the back of your mind of their own accord, but this is the first time they've been anything more than hunches. This time, it's distinct language.

You come to a halt and tilt your head up like you're speaking to an intercom. It's ingrained, almost instinct. "why?"

~~_This is why. You shouldn't be here. You need to wake up._~~

"because i can hear you?"

~~_This place is unsafe. Please, wake up._~~

"this is a dream," you calmly answer. "isn't it?"

~~_Perhaps,_~~ says the voice, ~~_but the mind can be very dangerous when you are unprepared for what lurks inside._~~

"do you know why i can't remember anything?" The more you talk to it, the more you grow convinced that this voice is more than just a dream. After all, it's spoken to you in the waking world, right? You know it has, you remember those sudden inklings of things you shouldn't know, the whispers from what you thought was your conscience or your instincts. And besides that, there's something so _familiar_ about it... if only you could remember.

The voice is quiet for several minutes, and you take the opportunity to resume walking. Now you're sure this hall leads somewhere, because why else would the voice tell you to stay away? Whenever you find something dangerous, it's usually what you need. So you walk, and after a long, long pause, you 'hear' a soft, ~~_Yes, I do. But I cannot explain._~~

"it's unsafe, right?"

~~_Yes._~~

You keep walking. There's a distant sound coming from further down the hall, deep in the shadows, but you're still too far to make it out as more than noise.

~~_Please go back._~~

"i can't," you say softly. A part of you feels almost guilty for disobeying the increasingly-upset voice, but... "i need to know."

And you walk.

Slowly, doors, hundreds of them, emerge from the shadows, each one as featureless as the last. They're big and metal, with a square barred window leading to more silent darkness above their handles. The first one you touch is frigid, almost enough to burn your ~~skin~~ bones. The others follow a similar pattern. All of them are locked.

You continue down the hall in this fashion, trying each door as you pass, alternating from one side of the hall to the other with each locked door. The voice remains quiet, and you make no attempt to talk to it first. Conversation is complicated, even when it's with some aspect of yourself. The ability to simply exist alone and in silence is intoxicating in its allure, and because it's a dream, you're secure in your knowledge that no one can bother you here.

Not unless the dream becomes a nightmare, anyway.

You've made it far enough down the hall that now, when you turn back, you can no longer see the bare walls that had first greeted you. Doors stretch as far as you can see, fading into darkness in the distance. It's the same before you, too. All of them have been locked. The sense of dreamlike wonder in your chest has changed, as has the glow of your SOUL beneath your tattered paper gown (when were you wearing this again? Last you'd checked, you were in Script's borrowed clothes, just like in the waking world.); now there's a burbling of dread that doesn't come from the tense atmosphere of the place, dim little fears taking root in your mind, and your SOUL's gleam has dimmed to the flickering of a candle, barely illuminating the walls just an arm's length away.

The shadows are growing darker. The light of your innocent ignorance is beginning to fail.

You have a very bad feeling.

But you press on, ~~determined~~ to find whatever it is that the voice was so keen on keeping from you. The further you go, the more choking the darkness becomes -- until you can barely see your hand in front of your face, feeling your way along the hallway with one hand on either wall. You keep trying doors, hoping, _praying_ now for answers.

Anything would be better than all this nothing.

And yet the nothing continues, and the doors continue to deny you your prize. But still you keep going.

It's several minutes (or perhaps much more; time flows strangely in a dream) before you realize that your footsteps no longer make any sound.

Disoriented, you judder to a halt, looking around desperately like you'll find answers in the pitch black nothingness that surrounds you. In your panic, you take your hands away from the walls.

And then you cannot find them again.

It's impossible for the walls to have vanished, right? You spin around, waving your hands through the space where you know, you _know_ there was a wall before, but there's nothing there but empty air. Behind you, it's the same story, and so it is for your left and your right and _everywhere_. It's like you simply

stopped

existing.

The only thing that you can see now is the faint outline of your SOUL painted beneath your paper gown, twinkling softly like a distant midnight star. Its glow is gone -- completely. Only that outline remains, paper thin and only visible because there is absolutely no other light source in whatever shadowed hell you've found yourself. You can't hear yourself breathe anymore, even that absorbed by the darkness.

You're

alone.

How long have you been here?

_" - - !"_

What... is that sound? Is it sound, or a trick of the darkness? Another part of this hellish dream come to taunt you, like the last one you'd heard?

_" - - - - - -APYRUS!"_

Something seizes you by the shoulders, and you catch the barest glimpse of a round skull and two big, terrified eyes, one dark (like yours) and the other filled with a tiny white double downward arrow.

And then you bolt awake with a strangled cry, your skull meeting someone else's with enough force to make you see stars. Through your dazed double vision (oh stars, why does your socket hurt so much?) you see Ginger fall back with a yelp, clutching his forehead. You instinctively open your mouth to apologize, but it's cut off by a powerful _wail_ as the burning in your green socket doubles and triples in intensity, and you double over, clawing at it and _shouting_ why won't it _stop--_

"-- hang on, hang on!" Someone drags your hand away from your socket and presses their own into it, soothing warmth radiating deep into your skull to chase away the sting. In a matter of seconds, the pain nearly vanishes, replaced with a soul-deep _ache_ that honestly is only barely more tolerable. As your vision clears (when did you start crying?) you realize that it's Script who's holding you down, and Blue's sprawling halfway across your lap with both of his hands, glowing green, firmly pressed against your aching socket. They look utterly horrified. "stars above," Script breathes, hesitantly releasing your wrists, "that was so fucked up. you just- y-you just started _gouging out_ your own _socket_ holy _shit-"_

_"my fucking face!"_ roars Ginger from the floor. He sounds less angry and more bewildered, and you... don't think you can blame him.

The glow of Blue's healing magic fades and he pulls away only long enough to wrap you in a hug, squeezing you so tight you think you can hear the old fractures in your ribcage grinding. "ARE YOU OKAY, RUNE? DOES YOUR EYE HURT? DOES ANYWHERE ELSE HURT?? WHAT HAPPENED???"

You're so confused. Awkwardly, you hug back, keeping your socket closed in an effort to combat the ache somewhat, and give Script a helpless look. "i... i don't... what just happened...?"

Script looks just as helpless and confused as you; in fact, you're pretty sure, judging by what Comic said... earlier (oh stars, how long were you out this time), that your expressions are almost mirror images. He shrugs, sparing half a glance to Ginger to make sure he's not in danger of dusting. "i have no idea," he admits. "we talked to sage and we were coming to get you, but you were asleep and you wouldn't wake up, so we were gonna shake you awake, and..." His voice turns hushed, an almost traumatized look coming across his face. "you just... you started trying to tear your _face_ off... a-are you okay? do you remember anything?"

Presumably he means the dream. Details are already beginning to fade, as they always do, so you talk fast. "i-i remember a lot of doors. they were all locked, and then it got really dark and i couldn't find the walls, and then i heard... i think i heard a voice? my name? and i saw _something_..." Stars, what had you seen? It was a face, you know that much, but whose face? _Whose face was it...?_

Your eye starts to burn again (there's that beep) and you grimace and brace, clapping a hand over it. It only aches a little more insistently; whatever Blue healed worked, apparently.

The loss of concentration had its consequences, however; you sigh and lower your hand to Blue's back again, absently stroking along his scapula. "i don't remember who i saw," you admit, shame flushing through your bones. And to think you were so close, too, to knowing something. "and then i woke up, and i remember hitting ginger on accident. i wanted to apologize, but my _eye_..." There's a phantom bolt of pain through your socket; you wince and cover it again, wishing not for the first time that you could just be _normal_. "is... is ginger okay...?"

"'m fine," grouses a voice from the floor. Ginger slowly stands up, still rubbing at the spot on his forehead where your skulls cracked together. There's no mark, but from the look on his face, it has to hurt like a bitch. He doesn't look angry, though; rather, he looks worried, brow wrinkling at the sight of you. "stars, you look like shit. musta been one helluva nightmare, huh?"

_Was_ it a nightmare? "i guess," you mumble, guiltily glancing away from him. "i'm sorry for hurting you."

He shrugs and takes a seat on the crowded bed, propping one foot up on the other knee. "eh, 's not your fault. i shoulda been more careful. had my fair share'a catapult wake-ups, shoulda known better from the get-go." Almost affectionately, he tousles your skull, smiling that odd little half-smirk of his again. "ya had us worried, not wakin' up like that." His smile turns tense. "coulda been fallin' down for all we knew. hard to tell when we can't see your hp."

"STARS, DON'T EVEN SAY THAT!" Blue lets you go and turns to quickly press a healing hand to Ginger's forehead, firmly planting himself in your lap. Looks like your theory about him and his brother adopting you was right -- gonna have to figure out how to feel about unofficially having a family soon, but that can be shelved for later. "THE LAST THING RUNE NEEDS TO DEAL WITH IS A MEDICAL CRISIS ON TOP OF EVERYTHING ELSE HE'S HAD HAPPEN TODAY."

Oh good. This time you weren't asleep for more than a few hours. That's a relief.

Well, you're tired of this topic (mostly because you're not sure how to handle people doting on you, especially since the 'base instinct package' that came with your amnesia apparently didn't come with a guide to social relationships). "you said you found sage, right?" There, that'll take attention away from you and bring it back to... you. God dammit. At least it's your amnesia instead of fussing over your health... except, the whole reason they wanted to find Sage was to check your stats, which is kind of medical history, isn't it? Double dammit. Too late, they're expecting you to keep going, so you better keep going. "s-so, um... what- what's happening there?"

"OH, RIGHT!" Luckily, or maybe unluckily (only time will tell), Blue takes the bait. He gives you one of those smiles of his with the big, starry eyes. "SAGE SAYS AFTER DINNER, HE CAN TAKE A LOOK AND SEE IF YOU'RE STABLE ENOUGH FOR A STAT CHECK! HE SAYS HE'S NOT COMFORTABLE DOING A FULL PULL, THOUGH, UNLESS YOUR HP IS HIGH ENOUGH."

"comic said he told you about the deal with alphys, right?" adds Script, also looking interested. Ginger's the only one giving you a funny look for the topic change, but you're fine with that, because you're already seen as weird. "he's getting in touch with her tonight about the checkup. it'll mean going to the lab, so in the meantime, he wants to take you clothes shopping tomorrow so you don't have to wear everyone else's spares."

Clothes shopping? "why?" you ask, blinking in confusion. "i already have clothes."

Script's expression changes several times, from befuddlement to realization to some mix of sympathy and an unidentifiable emotion to forced cheer again, and he smiles a very insincere smile, looking like he'd rather punch something. "the bright side of being here," he says slowly, "is that you get to wear whatever you want, _when_ ever you want."

"yeah," Ginger says, catching on quickly, "so you can wear something different every day if you want to, or even if you just want to have some sleep clothes and some work clothes. plus, you can get stuff that you like instead of what someone else wants you to wear."

Ooookay, they're doing that 'talking to a child' voice again, so this is obviously something you're supposed to know but don't again. Instead of arguing (because you still don't understand the point of changing clothes when they're just ~~disposable~~ ~~a means to an end~~ ~~to hide the surgical scars~~ more things to keep track of) you just nod politely and look away. After a moment, you quietly ask, "is dinner going to be soon?"

Ginger and Script exchange a look, but Blue perks up. "YEAH! WE'RE MAKING LASAGNA TONIGHT! WELL, VALOR IS. AND SABRE IS SUPPOSED TO MAKE STUFFED MUSHROOMS, BUT SOMETIMES MARQUIS DOES IT. DO YOU WANT TO HELP? YOU CAN HELP ME MAKE THE GARLIC BREAD!"

You know what? After the day you've had, that actually sounds good. You nod, watching a grin bloom across Blue's face -- seems he was a lot more eager to do things with you than you anticipated. "WONDERFUL! I'LL GO TELL VALOR! MEET ME IN THE KITCHEN IN HALF AN HOUR!" he chirps, and then he's off like a shot just like before, out the door before you even have a chance to wave goodbye.

Script smiles after him, chuckling softly at his brother's antics. Then he looks at you with that same smile. "thanks," is all he says. Then he's gone too, off doing who-knows-what.

That leaves you and Ginger. Ginger scratches at his cheek, a nervous tic you've noticed over this past day, and avoids looking at you for several minutes. When he finally does, it's with a little smile of his own and relief in his eyelights. "'m glad you're okay," he mumbles before vanishing from the room as well.

Left in an empty room, you sit on your bed and you do the one thing you know you're good at and _think_.

That dream was no coincidence, you're sure. Comic fiddles with your collar and comes up with some ominous theory about how it's impacting your SOUL, and then you have a weird dream about a dark hallway and doors? One where you talk to your own intuition, the very same one that's been speaking up every time something even vaguely familiar starts happening? One where that same intuition warns you about the dangers of the mind when you're not prepared for the answers you find?

Yeah, "coincidence" is out of the question.

And then, there's the matter of that _face_ you witnessed. You flop back and stare at the ceiling, trying to will the image back into clarity (stars, your collar's incessant beeping is annoying; now that you've noticed it, you can't _un_ notice), but the best you can do is recall big, scared eyes. Nothing else comes back, despite the feeling rolling in your gut that says you _knew_ whoever it was you saw. Whoever that person was, they were part of the past that's been eluding you, and whatever's going on that's hidden away all your memories... it's hiding this one, too. Your only clue.

But it's okay. You're patient -- to a fault, sometimes. Nothing can hide from you forever.

Nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i officially have designs for [butch, sage,](https://badtimebabe.tumblr.com/post/630106095766093824) and [rune](https://badtimebabe.tumblr.com/post/630089877689712640) up on my tumblr account if anyone is interested. i do irregularly post there regarding this fic and its related aus, and i'm always open to questions/thoughts/concerns.
> 
> this chapter got banged out in exactly one day because i had n o t h i n g to do at work except write and play video games. it's a little wonky in places but i'm happy enough. things will pick up soon, i promise.


	7. Vibe Check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So many questions, so few answers. At least you're not alone anymore.

By the time dinner is done (and what an adventure it was; Sabre still seems to be holding a grudge against you, pointedly getting in your way and snatching things that you're reaching for even when he has absolutely no use for them, which apparently pissed off Valor to the point that he very loudly and angrily lectured him about proper hosting technique while absolutely pulverizing the hell out of the meat sauce he was supposed to be preparing for the lasagna, though it still turned out positively divine in the end) and everything has been properly put away, Script and Ace have come to you about Sage, requesting that you meet them in the library as soon as you can.

When you raise the question of where the library is, neither of them has even half a chance of telling you before Blue, who you'd last seen carting a precarious stack of dishes half as tall as he is to the sink, practically teleports onto your arm, very enthusiastically volunteering his assistance. Script laughs and even Ace, global king of bitter scowls, cracks a big, cheesy smile, a strange sort of pride in his eyelights at the smaller skeleton's antics. Then they both vanish after a short farewell, leaving you in the kitchen with Blue once more.

The library, as it turns out, is down one of the other magically-stabilized spatial hallways, next to an enormous study and even a small, sunny greenhouse where you can see Slim meticulously trimming a patch of golden flowers.

"WE GROW OUR OWN FOOD," Blue helpfully explains with a grin. It catches Slim's attention and he looks up at you, waving shortly with his usual vaguely suspicious half-smile before returning to his work. "IT'S NOT A LOT, MOSTLY JUST A SUPPLEMENT TO THE STUFF WE BUY, BUT THERE'S A LOT OF SPICES IN THERE! AND THE GOLDEN FLOWERS WE DRY TO MAKE TEA!"

"tea?"

"YEAH! IT'S THE QUEEN'S FAVORITE KIND IN OUR WORLD!"

You nod like you understand, quietly contemplating the things you still don't know about monster culture. There's going to be a lot for you to learn, it seems -- at least you know where the library is now. Any good library should have history books, right? Maybe you can read up on the things people will expect you to know by rote.

And what a library it is. Blue pulls you in by the hand, and it turns out to be a good thing, because you're positively blown away at the sight of it and end up merely following where he's pulling you.

The library is _enormous_ , likely magically enhanced like the hallway in which it resides. There's two stories, an enormous study area with desks and computers on the first and a beautiful wooden balcony lined with packed bookshelves circling above on the second. The far wall is lined with massive picture windows, through which you can see shifting scenes (clearly magically generated) of a cheerful snowy town, a glowing river surrounded by deep blue reeds, a strange facility ~~which seems oddly familiar~~ resting at the center of a volcanic lake, and a large, peaceful city beneath a twinkling rocky sky. To the right, you see Comic's brother, working on some large moving structure constructed entirely out of bones, happily humming away to himself as he works.

He looks up when you come near, already bright smile growing at the sight of you, and bounds over after carefully resetting what looks like a traditional rope snare. "AH, OUR NEWEST GUEST! WELCOME! I AM THE GREAT PAPYRUS, OTHERWISE KNOWN AS CHIEF!" he chirps in a booming voice, excitedly shaking your hand. You're dazzled by his enthusiasm; it's reminiscent of Blue's, but Blue is so much... _smaller_. Seeing someone who looks so much like Valor (if a little shorter, even than you) be so exuberant is throwing you a little off your game. "I HAD INTENDED TO INTRODUCE MYSELF AT LUNCH, BUT ALAS! I WAS TRAGICALLY DISTRACTED BY VALOR'S INSISTENCE ON SPARRING!"

He's still shaking your hand. Like his life depends on it.

Oh stars, you can't bear to pull your hand away. He's so _happy_.

"i-it's good to- to meet you, chief," you stutter out with an awkward, shy grin of your own.

If possible he perks up even _more_ , grin widening like it's trying to split his face in half. "IT'S VERY GOOD TO MEET YOU TOO, OTHER ME! WHAT BRINGS YOU TO MY HUMBLE ABODE TODAY?"

"us."

Chief does something with his body that looks like he's trying to contort himself in ways bones should not contort, twirling around in midair to point theatrically at Ace (who's now visibly fighting laughter) and Script (who's just casually smiling, hands in his pockets). "YOU!!! I HAVE!!! TOLD YOU!!! SEVERAL TIMES!!!" He plants one hand on his hip and shakes the pointing finger at them like he's disciplining a misbehaving mutt. "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO WARN PEOPLE BEFORE YOU JUST POP UP BEHIND THEM, ACE!"

Ace bursts into full-body guffaws. "e-eheh! did we- did we r- _rattle yer bones?"_ he manages to choke out between bouts of manic cackling.

"yeah, chief," Script says with a grin, "it's _bonely_ us."

"UGH!" Both Chief and Blue groan loudly at the puns, while you cover your mouth to stifle a snort. It nets you a horrified stare from Blue and a terrifyingly gleeful grin from Ace. Script looks to be having the time of his life either way.

"NO, RUNE!" Blue gasps, swooning dramatically with a hand to his firehead. "DON'T LET THEIR ATROCIOUS SENSES OF HUMOR SWAY YOU TO THE SIDE OF EVIL!"

"GASP!! MY NEW BEST FRIEND, JOINING THE TERRIBLE JOKESTERS??" Chief grabs the hand that Blue's not holding and shakes your whole arm like he's trying to shake some sense into you. You can't help but laugh at it. "PERISH THE THOUGHT! SURELY YOU WILL NOT STOOP TO THEIR LOWS!!"

"i dunno," you reply with a smile and a shrug, "they're making some pretty convincing arguments."

In unison, Blue and Chief howl, "NOO!!!" and engulf you in a double hug, Chief patting your head with the enthusiasm of a dog's wagging tail and Blue burying his face in your borrowed shirt.

"NOT YOU TOO!" Blue wails theatrically. "I CAN'T LOSE ANOTHER BROTHER TO THE DREADED PUNS!"

"I HAVE NEVER HAD ANOTHER BROTHER BUT WHAT I FEEL IS SURELY EQUIVALENT IN DRAMATIC IRONY!" shouts Chief with cartoonishly large tears in his sockets. "I WILL MOURN YOUR LOSS, DEAREST NEWEST BROTHER!"

"AS WILL I!"

Both of them promptly collapse into dramatic false tears and you can't hold it anymore, bursting into laughter. Ace and Script follow suit, and after a moment, Blue and Chief drop the theatrics to join in.

You're left standing there, wrapped in a hug by one adoptive brother and one unscarred, happy version of you, laughing along with them and two other similar-looking skeletons, and for the first time, you're genuinely _happy_.

It feels... _good_.

Slowly, the laughs die out, leaving you and your interdimensional brothers with tears in the sockets, smiles on your faces, and warmth in your SOULs. Blue and Chief reluctantly release you, though Blue makes sure to keep your hand firmly in his.

"WELL, THAT WAS FUN AND ALL, BUT I'M SURE YOU HAVE BUSINESS TO TAKE CARE OF," Chief sighs. He gives you four a pointed brotherly look, tapping his foot. "I DO EXPECT TO BE KEPT IN THE LOOP, THOUGH I DO TRUST YOU THREE TO KEEP OUR NEWEST FRIEND SAFE AND SOUND. AND YOU KNOW MY BROTHER WILL DESIRE THE SAME!"

Ace waves a hand dismissively, his usual smirk already back. "don' worry, chief, i got it. comic already gave me the whole spiel, an' so did my paps. ye'll get yer updates."

That's where you part ways -- Chief departs on his own, giving the rest of you a jaunty wave and a cheerful farewell, while Blue pulls you along behind Script and Ace, who lead you deeper into the winding bookshelves that compose the latter half of the library's first floor. You pass shelf after shelf spilling over with weathered tomes and novels, into a segment which appears to have been decorated less like a library and more like a very bookish bunker, with strings of lights looping from shelf to shelf beneath a dark canopy of blankets that block out all the natural light. There's piles of pillows everywhere that create cozy-looking reading nooks, each one with its own color theme and varying piles of books stacked to either side.

Eventually, you come across a small clearing that may once have hosted a desk or two, now cleared out and lined with beanbag chairs and enormous fluffy pillows. Seated in a mushroom chair nearest the far wall, cozied up beneath a thick velvety blanket and a dark green onesie, is Sage. He's got a pair of glasses taped to his skull and a book in his hands, quietly reading and sipping at a steaming mug of tea. As you approach, he glances up two or three times before sighing and marking his place, setting the book aside to greet you. "Not gonna lie, I was kind of hoping you forgot," he says quietly.

"yeah, well, we didn't," Ace mutters back. He seems drawn to the nearest beanbag like a magnet and forcefully flops down into it, looking for all the world like a very grumpy hamster with how his jacket fluffs out and the triumphant return of his usual scowl.

Script is more polite, though he also seeks a seat. "so, you said you have some kind of scanner?" You and Blue remain standing, mostly because Blue is anxiously hopping from one foot to the other and you're hesitant to sit down if it means letting go of his hand. Holding hands is oddly calming.

For supposedly being some kind of savant, to hear the others tell it, Sage sure doesn't look eager to be dealing with the four of you right now. He gives all of you a pained look in turn, clearly reluctant to come out from under his queen-sized throw. Then he sighs and nods. The book goes to the side of his seat, page marked with a plasticky flyer for a nearby observatory. "Yeah," he says, his hands retreating under the blanket to shuffle around, presumably in his pockets, "yeah, I do. It's in my inventory, give me a moment."

There's an awkward pause, during which Ace continues to look like he'd rather be doing anything but this, Script and Blue exchange wordless glances, and you just kind of hang out, idly thumbing your still-healing humerus. Blue's healing session earlier definitely helped with the pain (though you think most of the magic went to your socket and surrounding skull, not that you're entirely certain how much damage you and your out-of-control magic caused yourself) so all that remains now is a persistent itch and a couple jagged pockmarks where the fracture used to be.

Your socket, though... Well, every so often, you get flashes of imagined pain, like someone jabbed a hot poker fresh from the fire into your eye socket and twisted. They don't last long, and you think they're probably more psychosomatic than genuine, but it's been... it's been a little rough.

No more nightmares yet, at least. But then, you also haven't slept since dinner.

"There we go," you hear Sage say after a moment, and you look up to see a fist-sized black object in his hand, sleek and shiny with a screen along the top. There are symbols blinking across the screen, but they hurt your head to look at for too long. "This is called an IMaLV, short for "inherent magic level visualizer". It's basically a surface-level stat scanner used for calibrating life support equipment."

Ace and Script look utterly fascinated now, even if Ace keeps huffing and grumbling to himself in some vain attempt to look standoffish. "so how does it work?" asks Script; you can see the analytical cogs in his skull turning, like he's trying to take it apart in his head and turn it all around to see how it works. "what stats does it show?"

"Well, uh..." Sage turns it over in his hand a few times. "Basically, it detects resonance frequencies from the target's SOUL and interprets them against a given standard to approximate stat details. Kind of like checking brainwave activity against a scientifically accepted 'normal', but tuned for SOULs instead of biological components."

"an' what standard is that thing built on?" Ace interjects, looking skeptical.

Sage gives him a vague look back, like he can't decide whether to be annoyed or not. "Dr. ~~Gaster~~ built a catalog of baselines from volunteers among lab personnel, mage and monster alike. It's one of the more accurate calibration instruments we have, and that's why none of you are gonna be touching it without strict supervision." Before Ace can interrupt, already turning red with anger, he adds, "This thing costs more than I could make in a lifetime, I'm not risking it getting damaged because you guys aren't familiar with the technology. No 'ffense."

"none taken," Script dryly replies. The looks on his and Ace's faces suggest it was said sarcastically and with much offense actually taken. Why must people lie? It makes things so complicated.

You tune out at this point because Sage goes back into some technical talk, detailing how the little scanning device in his hand uses some kind of oscillating matrix to do something to something else that makes a thing happen -- honestly, it's all completely over your head at this point. The only thing you're focused on is the feel of Blue's gloved hand in yours and that dull straining in your chest that comes with any kind of focus on your part on your errant SOUL, continuing to try and suss out what the deal is with it.

It's kind of funny. With the way your SOUL seems to fight back against your magic's hold every time you try to summon it, it's almost like it doesn't belong to you...

Blue shakes you by the hand he's holding, alerting you back out of your daze, and your eyes snap up to meet Sage's, _far_ too close for your comfort. You make a sound like a cross between a squawking bird and a squeaking mouse, stumbling back a few steps in your alarm; luckily for you, Blue was expecting it and keeps you balanced despite your body's overwhelming urge to topple backwards. Sage, on the other hand, just gives a firm full-body flinch and a few blinks.

"nice," scoffs Ace with a roll of the eyes. "real smooth."

"I am the definition of smooth," Sage answers -- is that a joke? -- with a smile in your direction. He holds out a hand to you. You just kind of stare at it. After a moment, he says, "I'm saying hello."

Oh. "hi," you respond, still staring at his hand.

He takes the hand back.

Instead he holds up the scanner, motioning for Blue to make some space. "This should be pretty noninvasive, the most you oughta feel is a slight tingling," he tells you as he presses some tabs on the device's screen. Monochrome windows flicker across a black background, all of them written in some script that gives you a headache to look at for too long. Whatever it is is affecting Blue too; he's got his head turned and eyes squeezed shut, luminescent blue sweat droplets trickling down his skull. He hasn't let go of your hand yet, though. "Ready?"

Nervously, you glance over to Script and Ace. Ace looks bored, though you're sure it's a front to hide the fact that he really is fascinated with the little device in Sage's hand, while Script gives you a confident nod and thumbs up, practically radiating soothing energy. It helps a little bit, tempering your nerves -- though, considering what happened earlier, you're still a bit anxious about anything SOUL- or magic-related.

~~Please don't let it hurt again.~~ _~~It'll be okay.~~_

Paradoxically for a skeleton, maybe because you're a magic one, you hold your breath.

The scan doesn't hurt, thankfully, just like Sage said. There's a faint tingling in your chest as the scanner casts a pale violet grid across your torso, scanlines running up and down the projection like a stream. After a few seconds, they consolidate into an outline -- an upside down heart shape, centered on your breastbone, just like in your dream. You watch with sockets wide, anxiety forgotten, drinking in the sight until-

_beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep---_

Simultaneously, the scanner shuts off and your collar emits a shrill tone, some hidden red light blinking on. It stays on for a few seconds, almost as long as the scanner, then the collar gives two short, staccato _bips_ and the light shuts back off.

Ace and Script are openly staring now, one in suspicion, the other in concern.

Before any of you have a chance to speak, Ace instantly flashes from the beanbag chair to right between you and Sage, startling you both with the suddenness of his appearance, and seizes you by the collar, much like Comic did earlier. "did this fuckin' thing just _beep_?" he says incredulously, running his phalanges all over its surface. It is a _bizarrely_ uncomfortable sensation to repeat, and no matter how much you squirm, he, like Comic, doesn't let go.

Next to you, Blue puffs up and tries to shove between you two (three? Sage's retreated by now, fully absorbed in his scanner). "ACE!!"

"hey, leave the kid alone," Script protests, suddenly next to you too -- where are these skeletons _coming_ from all of a sudden!? Wasn't he just over there!? "give him some space, you're gonna suffocate him."

You'd protest too, but it's like a wall has come down between you and the world. Ironic, isn't it? Script says Ace is going to suffocate you without even knowing you're drowning in your own vocabulary, unable to speak a word. Instead, you're just standing there, frozen. ~~Like a lab rat in a cage.~~

"shaddap an' back off! comic's right, this shit's sus as fuck." Ace is muttering to himself, feeling around the interior of your collar just like Comic did before -- which makes sense, if Comic had mentioned to him whatever theory he'd apparently formulated during his visit with you. "you see anythin' like this in yer timeline, script? 's like a fuckin'... i dunno," he mumbles, running a finger along the rim, "'s like a fuckin' _leash_ , 'r a limiter'a some kind..."

"limiter?" Oh no, now _Script's_ looking interested. Isn't one mob enough for these guys? "what do you mean, 'limiter'?"

"i mean a fuckin' magic limiter, the fuck else y'think 'm gonna mean?" Ace scowls at him and mercifully, _thankfully_ lets go, finally allowing Blue to come protectively between the two of you. He shoves his hands in his pockets, turning that piercing gaze back to you. "royal guard used 'em ta neutralize any rowdy customers before draggin' 'em back ta judgement. they're some kinda engineerin' marvel, i hear, s'pos't'a use inverted green magic ta stop whoever's wearin' the thing from usin' their magic."

"GREEN MAGIC CAN'T DO THAT!" Blue protests, crossing his arms. Oh, he looks _mad_. "AND THAT'S NO EXCUSE TO INVADE RUNE'S PERSONAL SPACE, EITHER!"

Ace gives him a funny look and scoffs. "i think i know the kinda shit we got back in my world," he deadpans, "an' those limiters _definitely_ use green magic. trust me, i got nailed with 'em enough by undyne ta know."

"magic _is_ supposed to be adaptable," hums Script. "i guess since you can't use it for healing in your world, they figured out a way to turn it into a weapon."

Blue looks back and forth between the two of them, then up at you, big blue irises full of concern. "BUT IF THAT'S TRUE," he says, "THEN DOES THAT MEAN RUNE CAN'T USE MAGIC BECAUSE THAT COLLAR IS BLOCKING HIM?"

"yup." Ace is watching you again. All of them are, save Sage, who's still fiddling with his scanner. You still haven't found your words, and just quail under their gazes instead. "i'd put money on that bein' why we can't see his SOUL, too." Now he's sweating too -- neat, his is red, just like his eyelights and his magic. "an' if it _is_ a limiter, then 's pro'bly gonna have a tracker in it. an' that'd mean someone's hidin' this kid's SOUL on purpose."

"I think I know why," comes a comment from the other side of the reading nook.

You all jump, having nearly forgotten about Sage in everyone else's excitement over your limiter-leash-collar. He's standing there with one hand in the pocket of his onesie and one on the scanner, watching you all with an unreadable expression on his face. Once he's sure he's got your attention, he starts talking again. "I tabulated the results and, well... Let's just say that 'weird stats' puts this guy's situation lightly. Let me show you."

He toys with the scanner again and then pulls the trigger, projecting another pale violet grid onto a nearby bookshelf. As you watch, the grid resolves into a blank form, into which data quickly begins to tabulate.

[ NAME: PAPYRUS 'RUNE' SERIF ]

[ LV: 1 NEXT: 10 | STD: 1.375 ]

[ HP: 15/5 | STD: 680 ]

[ AT: -30 | STD: 20 ]

[ DF: **ERROR: NOT A NUMBER** | STD: 20 ]

Ace and Script are quiet for several minutes before Script says, "huh. not what i expected."

"guess that means th' blank ain't a fault with us," Ace grumbles under his breath. He looks mystified and frustrated at the same time, glowering at the floor like it personally offended him. "c'rroborates what all'a us've seen, at least."

"I've never seen a stat do that either," adds Sage, gazing at the projection for a few more seconds. Then he shuts it off and tucks the device back into his... phone. Is that what an inventory is? "Best I can figure is, there's some kind of instability going on with his SOUL that's causing his readings to fluctuate in ways we can't get a bead on."

Your SOUL sinks in your chest. Does that mean...?

The other skeleton confirms it, saying, "Even though his HP is pretty nominal for an S-type," is that how they're calling the lazy personalities? "we can't assume that means his SOUL is in any shape to be pulled out right now. If anything, you should exercise _more_ caution -- especially if you're right and that collar's hiding something important."

"so, no pull right now." Script crosses his arms and sighs, giving you an apologetic look. "sorry for dragging you through all this for nothing, pal. at least we know you're healed up from whatever went on by now, right?"

... where did Ace go? Ah, he probably decided to disappear once it became obvious that none of you were going to get answers tonight. He's mercurial like that, isn't he?

Meanwhile, Blue hugs your side... again. He's very huggy, isn't he? Not that you're really complaining, at least about him specifically. "DON'T WORRY, RUNE! COMIC'S ALPHYS WILL MAKE SURE EVERYTHING IS OKAY TOMORROW AFTER WE GO SHOPPING!" His billion megawatt smile returns in full force, practically blinding you with its brilliance. "ARE YOU EXCITED TO FINALLY LEAVE THE HOUSE?"

Joy. More unknowns, after an entire day of not knowing anything.

... but you can't make him sad.

Blinking the stars out of your eyes, you nod, even managing to give him a weak smile despite your horribly mixed feelings about this whole situation. "y-yeah," you answer, "i'm... i'm thrilled."

Luckily for you, he either doesn't notice or purposefully ignores how insecure you sound, beaming at you instead. "GOODIE! IT'LL BE FUN TAKING YOU TO THE STORE, I PROMISE!"

"right." Script smiles and lifts a hand in Sage's direction with a respectful nod. "thanks for the checkup, sage."

"You're welcome." Sage's smile is an odd little half-smile, like Slim's but with less of an ominous tint to it. "I'm just glad I could help, even if I can't help you find the answers you're wanting. This mean I can go back to reading?"

"yup. later."

And then you're back in the living room.

Blue makes a terrible sound and clings to you. "UGH. PAPY, YOU KNOW I HATE IT WHEN YOU DO THAT!" he complains loudly. "IT MAKES ME NAUSEOUS WHEN YOU DON'T WARN ME."

"sorry," Script says, clearly not sorry at all. He tucks both hands into his hoodie. "probably time for you to get to bed, rune. 's been a long day for you, hasn't it?"

Boy howdy, wasn't it. You're still not sure what to make of everything that happened -- hell, the last two hours feel like you just rushed right through them without even a chance to glance around. You fidget and glance away, resting a hand on Blue's head when he doesn't immediately retreat to let you leave. "i guess," you say after a long moment, because it feels awkward to stand there silently. "... thanks. for trying."

The taller skeleton gives you a meaningful look. "you seem like you're in a mess. it's only right that we help out. besides, you need a brother to help you out in the world. we all do. so, since you don't have one..." He scratches at his skull, suddenly looking bashful. "i-i mean, if you want to, that is."

What...? ...oh.

Aww.

You don't really know what to say, but you manage a smile anyway, even if it's small. "thanks," you say again, quieter. "... i don't know what family means right now, but... but i think i'd like to."

Blue's still hugging you, and he squeezes harder, making a high pitched sound. When you look down at him, he's got big, goobery tears in his sockets and an even bigger, even gooberier smile on his face. He's just a guy who feels with his whole heart, isn't he? "WE WOULD BE HONORED!!"

"aww..." Guess that proves that you and Script really are alike, doesn't it? "all right, how about a group hug?"

"YES PLEASE! THIS IS A VERY PASSIONATE MOMENT OF BROTHERLY LOVE AND IT CAN ONLY BE IMPROVED BY GRATUITOUS PHYSICAL AFFECTION."

"you know this means he's gonna be hugging you a lot, right? because he will. that's not a threat, it's a promise."

"... that's okay. if it's him."

"AW, RUNE!"

That night, you dream of a little girl singing, and then of blissful nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to write this twice cuz evernote decided to lose half the chapter right after i finished it the first time. me angy.
> 
> next chapter introduces some new skels, as well as the long-awaited mall episode :]
> 
> once more, come visit me on [tumblr](http://badtimebabe.tumblr.com) for additional ramblings and sometimes doodles about the fic and characters.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Far From Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27470683) by [ohitsthatguy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohitsthatguy/pseuds/ohitsthatguy)




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